My Fair Lacey
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: Lacey French is a hard-working masseuse who overhears Professor Gold boasting that, with his instruction, he could pass her off as a prime minister's daughter at the Governor's Ball. Desperately wanting to better herself, she offers to pay for lessons and an audacious experiment begins. Remix of – my readers are smart – they can figure it out.
1. Chapter 1

**My Fair Lacey**

 _A.N. I'm not a fan of writing in dialect, but in this story, it was rather a necessity. Bear with me, please. Lacey gets easier to understand in just a couple of chapters._

 **Chapter 1**

 **A Most Audacious Experiment**

It was pouring rain, a downburst that couldn't possibly last any amount of time. People on the streets had made a dash for the cover that a canopy next to the hotel offered.

"Mother, this is just too awful," an attractive red-headed young woman whined. She was standing next to an older, expensively-dressed, red-headed woman and a younger, pretty brunette.

"Well, Zelena, I hardly have control over the weather. I'm sure this will be over shortly," the older woman replied sharply.

"But I don't wa-ant to have to waaa-it. Gaston!" Zelena turned around to address a sullen young man who was standing in the background. "Be a good brother and go run and get the car."

"Wha-at Zelena?!" the young man complained. "I don't want to go out in this. I'll get soaked. I'll catch my death."

"But I don't wa-ant to stand here," the young woman complained and stuck her tongue out at her brother who had remained under the canopy. She lowered her voice, "There are some creepy people around us."

There was indeed an odd collection of people who'd been forced to seek shelter from the rain. There was the expected collection of men in suits, women in tank tops and tiered skirts, young people in jeans, and two young mothers with their children in strollers. Against the building wall was a short, bald man, who was likely drunk, and an older, well-dressed man with a cane and a notebook _who might also have been drunk._ The well-dressed man was preoccupied, writing in his notebook, leaning up against the wall for support. Also, standing under the canopy, just within the protection of the canopy, was a young woman with much too teased, much too high, much too white-blonde hair. She was wearing a much too short skirt with much too tall heels. The young woman had been approaching the men in the area to speak briefly with them and to hand them a business card.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," the well-dressed older woman exclaimed suddenly, noticing one of the men. "I never." And at that moment, lightning and thunder struck at the same time and the rain increased.

The man in question, the well-dressed man with the cane, turned, his notebook and pen in hand, possibly recognizing the woman's voice, "Cora? Dearie, it's been ages. How are you doing?"

"Rumple, darling. I'm pretty well. And you?"

"Mommy, who is this?" the whiny redhead had stepped in front of her mother.

The older woman seemed a little hesitant but finally made an introduction. "This is an old . . . friend . . . of mine, Rumford Gold."

"I'm Zelena," the tall redhead slunk forward. "Were you and my mother lovers?" she asked, her eyes lingering over the man's trim form.

The man gaped at her a moment, but before he could recover and reply, Zelena continued, "All of mommy's old 'friends' were her lovers." She looked the man over. "You're rather yummy, so I would be surprised if you and mommy didn't boink like bunnies."

"Zelena, for Christ's sake, quit pestering the man. And quit being vulgar," her mother directed her before turning back to the man. "Rumple, you must tell me what you're doing now?"

"Still teaching English literature, supervising grad students. And, of course, there's still my phonology, my linguistics studies." He held up his notebook and a pen as if somehow these explained what he was doing.

Cora frowned, "You're able to make a living with that?"

"Rather. My books have sold, I do the occasional lecture tour, teach the odd class now and then," the man shrugged.

"And, of course, your mother's money doesn't hurt," Cora said, perhaps a bit snidely.

"Well that would be true if I actually had any of her money, but we're barely on speaking terms," Rumple told her.

At that moment, another man came running up under the cover. He was tall, slender, and dressed flamboyantly in a bright yellow jacket over black pants. He wore a boater straw hat with a matching yellow and black band. He shook himself off as he came to a stop. He looked around and, at the same time, he and the man with the cane exclaimed, "Gold!" "Madden!"

The two men shook hands and the older man spoke, "I had no idea you were in town, you old bellend. Last I heard you were living the high life in New York. Delightfully surprised when I got your invitation. Congratulations."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," Madden told him. "I'm back in town to help plan the wedding. Viktor insisted I help," Madden rolled his eyes. "He thinks I'm better with flair than he is . . . which is true, what can I say? You will be available for the wedding party, won't you? I'm seriously considering asking you to be my best man."

Gold shook his head, obviously surprised, "I'd be honored."

"Fab-u-lous," Madden told him and looked up at the rainstorm, "I do hope this rain lets up soon. I'm on my way for my waxing appointment. It was sun-shiny when I left the apartment. I'm not used to these weather extremes.

"Oh-uh," the too-blond girl in the too-short skirt spoke up. "We'uns will tell ya that ratcher if ya'll jus' waits an hour, the weathah will change." She smiled at the young man and handed him a business card. "Perhaps, after yer appoin'ment?"

The tall man looked at the card, then at the young woman. "You're a masseuse?"

"Uh hum. Got a nice li'l place in th' Blue Star Motel." She leaned in, "Happy endin' extra." She winked at him, "but well worth it."

"You know I don't swing your way," Madden clarified.

"Oh, 'at's pretty durn obvious, but ya'll big-time stressed out an' a little ma-ssage is jus' what ya needs."

Madden took her card and bowed. "I'll keep you in mind, me darlin'."

Gaston, the hapless sibling of the petulant Zelena, who had not gone for the car, had been watching this exchange. "You know miss, that guy back there has been writing down everything you've said." And he pointed to Gold.

The young woman turned back to the well-dressed man with the cane. "Whaaa?! Air you a po-lice man or sum'in'?" she asked the man.

The man looked up from his notebook. "I'm a linguist. I study how people talk."

Cora took this moment to yell at her son, "Gaston! Aren't you ever going to go and get the car? We don't want to have to wait here all afternoon."

"All right, all right, all right, mother," Gaston said reluctantly and, after taking a solid breath, like he was about to dive into the deep end of the pool, he sprang away from the protection of the canopy, running in the downpour.

"Well," the young woman talking with Gold was visibly upset. "You ain't got no call t' be writin' me down. An' how do I know y' got me right?"

He handed her the notebook and, after perusing it, the young woman squinched her face up. "This ain't proper writin'. What do this all mean?"

"We'uns will tell ya that ratcher if ya'll jus' waits an hour, the weathah will change," the man read, capturing her intonations and mispronunciations perfectly.

"I ain't doing nutin' wrong." The girl persisted, now crying. "I warn't doin' no solicitin' or nut'in.'"

"Oh quit caterwauling, you simpering clunge!" the older man ordered her, which only resulted in the young woman crying more loudly.

"Miss, I don't think you've done anything wrong." The tall young man, Madden, spoke gently to her.

"I gotta license fur my massagin' an' I kin walk th' streets like anybody else. I didn't do nut'in'," the young woman persisted, shrinking back against the building away from the rain and the two men.

Madden turned back to Gold. "I am curious as to why you are recording this particular young lady's speech patterns." He waited.

Gold shrugged and replied. "She has some interesting intonations— generally suggestive of an inadequate education and a redneck upbringing, completely Kallikak-esque. You know, patterns of speech tend to stay with people and can seriously impact on their ability to get ahead, get a good job. I've often thought I should open a school where I teach people how to express themselves so they can improve their opportunities."

"I could see there being a market for that," Madden observed.

"Absolutely. Take this unfortunate guttersnipe," Gold gestured in the young woman's direction. "Her loathsome English will keep her working as a . . . masseuse . . . until the end of her days. Well sir, in six months, I could pass her off as a prime minister's daughter at the Governor's Ball at the Biltmore."

"Now that would be a fascinating experiment," Jefferson agreed. The rain had abruptly slackened up and many of the other people under the canopy, including the well-dressed Cora and her sullen daughters, had begun to meander off.

"Would that I could," Gold spoke longingly. "But it would require complicity and a willingness in the subject to work hard and make serious changes." He rubbed his nose bridge, "Can't see it happening." He changed the subject, "Now, where are you staying – with Viktor?"

"No, he doesn't have room for all my stuff. For now, I'm in that new hotel, Aloft. Really though, I can't abide Viktor's god-awful condo – it's so bourgeois. He's promised me that he'll look for a new place that we both can agree on, but I cannot, cannot, cannot get him away from his job long enough to meet with a realtor. So, in the meantime, I'd love to come over to see you. Are you still in that deliciously dark condo complex on Rankin, across from the garage?"

"Exactly right, 401, a two-story apartment on the top floor - has an outdoor rooftop patio."

"I remember. Sweet," Madden observed approvingly.

"Well, let's have supper, tonight would be good," Gold invited his old friend. He looked out from the cover as if he had just noticed the absence of rain. "Hey, it appears to have stopped raining. I'm on my way for a little lunch. Can you join me? I'd like to hear about what you've been up to."

Madden shook his head. "Love to, but I'm on my way to that waxing appointment. We'll just have to wait and connect for supper." And he and Gold stepped on out to the street to continue on their separate ways.

A Mercedes pulled up and the young man, Gaston, now thoroughly drenched, his hair plastered to his head, looked out his window, noting the greatly thinned out crowd. "Hey, where are those three women who were here?" he asked the young blonde woman.

"They done walked on as soon as it quit rainin'," the young woman told Gaston not paying him any attention.

"Well, piss on a spark plug," said Gaston and rolled up the window and drove off.

The young blonde woman stood under the canopy quietly, watching the older man with speculative interest as he limped down the street.

 **The Penthouse Apartment**

Jefferson Madden had made himself at home in Gold's luxurious penthouse apartment, decorated mostly in leather and dark wood paneling. He was sitting, leafing through some of Gold's collection of soundtracks. Gold had been playing recordings for him and Jefferson was left shaking his head.

"Well, I can't make out half of what you're hearing," Jefferson confessed.

"Do you want to go through it again?" Gold asked him. He'd been pacing and fidgeting all the while.

"Oh no," Jefferson demurred. "This listening to sounds is quite exhausting. I'd fancied myself as having a great ear. It's what's enabled me to work as the most sought-after accent coach on Broadway. But most of your sounds, well, I confess, I don't hear the difference."

"It's just practice. At first, there's no real difference, but after listening to them over and over, they become as different as A and B."

It was before dinner time and the two men were enjoying some of Gold's top-shelf whiskey as they talked over old times and current happenings.

Ms. Potts, a woman of a certain age, pleasantly rotund, knocked on the door before entering. "Sir, there is a young woman to see you."

"A young woman? What does she want?"

"Well," Ms. Potts clearly was not approving. "She says you'll be glad to see her when you know why she's come." Ms. Potts lowered her voice, "She's a very common girl, sir, a very common girl. I might have sent her away, but I thought she might be one of those that you'd be doing a recording. I hope I haven't done wrong, you do see such odd folks."

"Oh, it's all right, Ms. Potts. Does she have an interesting accent?"

"Oh, something dreadful sir, really."

"Excellent. Show her in," Gold told her.

"Yes sir," Ms. Potts reluctantly agreed.

"This will be great fun," Gold was speaking to Jefferson. "You'll get to see how I get the recordings. I have this little protocol prepped up. I take the recording, of course, but then I can also let you see it in Bell's Visible- Revised and broad Romic."

Ms. Potts reappeared, "This is the young woman sir," and she ushered in the masseuse from the street they'd encountered earlier that day.

Gold was clearly disappointed. "Oh, this will never do. I already have reams on her speech patterns. She's no use." He turned to the girl. "Be off with you. I haven't any use for you. I don't want you."

"'ey now, you don haf t' be so uppity. You ain't heard why I come."

"Shall I escort her out?" Ms. Potts asked her employer.

"Now wait here," the girl protested, attempting to draw herself up to an imposing height of five feet five inches, four of which were her shoes. "If me money's not good enuf here, I kin go somewheres else."

Gold paused, partially intrigued, "Good enough for what?"

"For yo-ooo. I come fur lessons. An' I'm ready t' pay, make no mistake," the girl was insistent.

"What?!" Gold sat down. "Lessons!"

"Yeah, I heard ya' sayin' that in six months time, you cud pass me off as a prime minister's dawghter at th' Gov'ner's Ball." The girl hesitated. "I been wantin' a job in one o' them nice dress shops on Heywood, but they won't hire me . . . an' I'm pretty sure, it's cause I doan talk so good. Sounds like you cud be teachin' me whut I needs to know."

Gold was smirking, thoroughly enjoying himself. "How much?"

"Oh, Gold, you aren't seriously considering what this young woman is requesting?" Jefferson began, but Gold waved him off.

"How much?" he repeated his question.

"We-ell. It's me own language, right? I looked up what pe-anny lessons cost an' them are forty dollars. So I'm figurin' this can't be no harder than learnin' to play pe-anny, so forty dollars a lesson." She seemed proud of herself for having done the math.

"You can afford that?" Gold asked, leaning in.

The young woman immediately leaned in toward him, "I kin make a thousand dollars a night."

He sat back, surprised. "If you can make that much money, why would you want a job in a dress shop? It doesn't pay nearly that much."

The young woman looked down at the floor. "We-ell, truth be told, most of th' money goes t' th' hotel and t' th' night manager, 'cause he's th' one who books customers fur me. By th' time, I'm finished payin' him an' payin' fur th' hotel room, an' payin' off anybody else who thinks they kin take a cut, I might have twenty dollars a night left over."

"So, you're offering me two days' pay for a single lesson?" Gold asked.

"Whut?! No! I'm just off'rin' to pay forty dollars fur an hour lesson," she tried to explain.

"That's a fantastic rate of pay!" he exclaimed, leaping up. "Why, I've never been offered so much. When I pro-rate this out, this is like someone with a respectable job offering me four hundred dollars for a lesson."

The young woman vaulted to her feet and was now protesting loudly, "Now wait a minute! I ain't payin' you no four hundred dollars! I ain't got no four hundred dollars fur no lessons. What air you talkin' 'bout?" And she started crying.

Gold turned on her, "Stop squalling, you ignorant bint," he ordered her and then turned back to Jefferson. "I could do this!" His mood had shifted to jubilant now. "This could be an amazing experiment. If she has a quick ear and at least room temperature IQ, with a little work, I should be able to take her anywhere and pass her off as anything!"

"Gold," Jefferson made an attempt to dissuade him. "Are you sure this is a good idea? You don't know anything about this young woman. She could be a thief or . . . a . . . prostitute, thoroughly inappropriate for your plans."

The young woman had heard him. "I ain't no thief and I don't do . . . th' other thing. You might get a happy endin' from me, but that's all," she protested.

"See there," Gold waved off Jefferson's concerns.

"But what if . . ." Jefferson lowered his voice, "she's married or has a family."

"I ain't married," the young woman spoke up. "And me dad turned me out when I turned eighteen. Said I was old enuf to earn me own keep."

"Ah," Gold relaxed. "See, there's no pesky family. No one will miss her. So, tell me, Jefferson, you in?"

"I may be. But . . ." he hesitated. "You know, she's going to need more than just articulation lessons," Jefferson remarked.

Gold was up and walking around the young woman, surveying the skimpy short red leather skirt with the matching and equally skimpy red leather halter top. He sneered at the fish-net hose and garters peeking out above the ultra-high black patent boots. He scrutinized the high white-blonde teased hair. He scowled, examining her thick eye makeup and dark ruby red lipstick. The young woman turned, keeping her eyes on him as he walked around her. "These clothes are completely unsuitable." He turned to his housekeeper, "Ms. Potts."

"Yes, sir."

"Take her in and get her a shower and have her wash the muck off her face. And call down to Prêt a Porter and have them send up a suitable dress and such for her and . . . and . . . burn these streetwalker clothes she's wearing. Put her up in one of the spare bedrooms. It'll be so much easier to work on this if she's immediately handy."

"Whut?" the girl protested. "I never said nut'in' 'bout staying here?! An' these are some o' me nicest clothes. Doan you be burnin' them!" she turned on Ms. Potts.

Ms. Potts wearily sighed. "We'll put them aside so you can keep them. But Mr. Gold cannot allow you to come in and out of his place in that attire."

"Whut's wrong wid the way I'm dressed?" the girl demanded to know.

"You look like a slag, a floozy," Gold called out to her. "Like a. . . hoochie momma peddling her wares."

The young woman wilted. "But these air my nicest clothes."

"Then it's clear that you have nothing appropriate in your wardrobe." He waved his hand and dismissed her. Ms. Potts led the young woman out, under protest, and Gold turned to Jefferson.

"Gold, don't you see the real problems here that we're going to face?" Jefferson asked him. "It's not going to be enough to work on her pronunciation. Her grammar is atrocious and . . ." Jefferson shook his head. "Her manners, her bearing, her lack of experience with culture and refinement – those things will give her away in a heartbeat."

"You don't think it can be done?"

"I think it may be the most audacious experiment I've ever heard of," Jefferson admitted.

"You willing to help?"

"I may be, but I want some clarifications."

Gold had flopped down in one of his luxurious leather chairs. "Sure. What would you like to know?"

Jefferson hesitated. "I don't like the idea of you having her move in here if . . . well, we know what she does for a living . . . and . . ."

"You think I might take her payment out in trade?" Gold asked him archly. He shook his head, "Let me assure you, she is not the tiniest bit attractive to me. I prefer women who are intelligent, more refined and less . . . cheap."

"That's good to know." Jefferson finished his drink. "All right then, I'm in. I'll go so far as to help fund the education of . . . good lord . . . we don't know the young woman's name."

"Does it matter? I'm sure it's something that screams white trash – like Enigma Jean or Tammy Lurline."

"But we have to have something to call her," Jefferson protested.

"We'll wait until she's steam-cleaned and deloused and ask her. We can sit her down for a meal." Gold speculated.

"I'm curious if she can use a napkin," Jefferson told him.

"I'm curious to see if she can use a fork," Gold responded.


	2. No Cannolis

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 2**

" **No Cannolis"**

The young woman looked at herself in the mirror.

She'd been right majorly put out with Mr. - _Professor?_ \- Gold's insistence that she get a shower. It wasn't like she was lice-infested – although, she had to acknowledge, she might have been. But, for sure, she certainly wasn't dirty.

As grim as her life often was, _and it was,_ she took some pride in her personal hygiene.

But, she sighed, she knew if she wanted his help, she'd have to play his game.

So standing in a really large bathroom, already fogging up with steam from the shower, the young woman stood and hung her head over. Putting her hands on her neck and using her fingers, she peeled off the over-sized blonde wig. Curly, dark brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She sat on the commode to shuck off her boots and then she shed the leather ensemble. She stepped into the shower, luxuriating in the hot, steaming steady stream of water and the vanilla-spice scented soap and shampoo she'd been given. It was all so much better than the tepid trickle of water and coarse white soaplets she had access to in her motel room.

Remembering what the professor had demanded, she then scrubbed her face. Stepping out, her hair dripping, she wrapped herself in the plush, too-big-for-her white robe Ms. Potts had set out for her. She picked up her clothes, shoes, and wig and went back into the bedroom that she'd been told would be hers. Ms. Potts was waiting for her.

"My, my, you clean up very pretty," Ms. Potts said approvingly.

The young woman blushed but then addressed the housekeeper. "I know they ain't much, but I gots a few thangs back at th' hotel. Clothes an' shoes an' some make-up, couple o' wigs an' a book I had from me mum. Them's all I got in th' world. An' I needs to get meself checked outta th' room. Rekon, it'd be okay if'n I run back over thar an' get me thangs?" she asked.

Ms. Potts had taken possession of the leather clothing and was busy folding them and setting them into the bottom drawer of the dresser. She turned to the young woman. "All you have in the world, honey?" The older woman seemed to soften. "If you have the address and a key, I can send Mr. Dove, that's Mr. Gold's driver, over to settle your bill and get your things tomorrow morning. Will that work for you?"

The young woman gave a sigh of relief. "That would. It's just a couple o' thangs. Thank ye ever so much."

"Well dear, if you're going to stay here, I want you to be comfortable. I keep the household to a routine which isn't easy, given Mr. Gold's . . . activities . . . and such."

"Is he as good as he sez he is?' the young woman asked Ms. Potts nervously. _She was, after all, taking a big risk with this._

"We-ell," Ms. Potts considered. "He is rather remarkable, I'll give him that. But he can be just a . . ." she hesitated before finishing, "a tad unpleasant on occasion."

The young woman smiled, "I kin put up wid a 'tad unpleasant.' Thank ya', Miz Potts."

"It's all right dear," Ms. Potts assured her and looked her over speculatively. "Maybe you're just the thing he needs," and she smiled at the very different person who now sat in front of her. "Will you be wanting something to eat?"

"Yes, ma'am if'n I cud. I done had a taco fur lunch but it's been awhile," the young woman shared.

"Then come on down when you're ready. I'll tell the gentlemen and they'll wait for you." And Ms. Potts stepped out of the bedroom.

Alone now, the young woman looked at herself in the large mirror. Without the armor of her makeup, her wig, her heels, and her brazen clothing, she looked younger and . . . and even innocent. She felt very vulnerable – and this was an uncomfortable feeling. She'd been taking care of herself since, well officially since she was eighteen, but really since her mother had died when she was twelve. She'd adopted the tough image to protect herself and to navigate the seedy world where she lived. She'd been successful.

 _What had she gotten herself into?_

She'd worked hard to develop her hotsy-totsy persona. It helped her get clients. It gave the impression she was street-wise and savvy. She _was_ tough _even if there was a frightened little girl inside of her_.

And now this Gold character, he was insisting she ditch all of this, all the armor that she had carefully constructed and built up both to protect herself and to enable her to earn a living.

It was scary.

Oh, she'd looked him up – of course, she had. He was a professor at UNC-Asheville and had published about a gazillion books, including a few New York Times bestsellers. On paper, he looked like he could do what he'd said he could.

When she'd heard the man talking about passing her off as a shmancy swish at the Governor's Ball, it had sparked something. She'd half expected him to toss her out, refusing to consider her proposal. At best, she'd thought he might agree to her offer and she'd have a lesson, maybe two, a week, enough for her to make some real changes, enough that she might be able to get a different job.

 _But now he'd blown up everything – she'd really just wanted to change how she talked. Now, if he was going to help her, she'd have to quit working and devote everything to him._

 _What if things didn't work?_

She'd decided that even if she committed to this, she still wanted to get her few possessions to keep with her – just in case, things fell through. She had worked hard to amass her limited wardrobe and she certainly wasn't ready to leave her stuff behind. If this . . . what had he called it – an experiment? . . . imploded, she'd certainly want her old clothes back.

She bit her lower lip. She did think (hope) that if things didn't work out, she would be able to get back with Keith. It wasn't like she had a regular client base – just a steady one.

She stopped a moment and looked around. She was sitting in a plush little chair in front of a matching old-fashioned, dark-wood, honest-to-Jesus dressing table with a huge mirror. It was one of those that women used to sit at to put on their neck cream and brush their hair out with a hundred strokes.

She sighed again. These were nice digs. The professor was obviously rolling in it. Behind her was a gorgeous big wooden bed covered with a silky looking cover with about eight color-coordinated pillows all over it. And there was a large window with thick curtains that looked out on the street. Yeah, it was nice, real nice.

She looked at herself again. She wouldn't have recognized the girl in the mirror. She looked younger and, she thought, plainer, much too plain. Without her wig and makeup, she didn't stand out. And without her padding, she just had her B cups. And without her heels, she was short. She was too short.

Well, screw it all. Time to face the music. Dressed in the luxurious, oversized bathrobe _one of Professor Gold's?_ she went back down the hall and down the stairs to the living room where Professor Gold and his nice friend, Mr. Madden, were waiting.

She hesitated before coming into the room and it was the other man, the tall, younger one, who noticed her first.

"Miss!" Madden stood up to greet her. He was surprised. "You look - fabulous. Love the dark hair – suits you much better than the blonde wig."

She didn't say anything, looking back at her cantankerous teacher.

He was surveying her with surprise and some curiosity. "You don't look - half-bad," he frowned and then added, "but you are rather short." He stood. "Well, shall we get to work? Oh yeah, what do we call you?" he asked.

"Lacey," she told him. "I'm Lacey French."

"Really? Lacey French? Sounds like a stripper name," he commented, raising his eyebrows. "I've ordered in some Italian." He motioned her toward the dining room table.

"Sure," she shrugged, tamping down a brief feeling of defeat - _she'd thought her name sounded classy._

Mr. Madden held out a chair for Lacey even while Gold flopped himself down at the head of the table.

"Wine?" Gold asked her.

"Yeah, sure," she told him and watched as he poured something dark and red into her glass. Gold poured wine for himself and Jefferson next.

Lacey was still watching her new teacher closely. She felt like she was on some kind of trial and he was waiting for her to mess up so he could cancel the whole experiment.

The table had been set with china plates, goblets, cloth napkins and cutlery. The food, lasagna sitting in a large foil cooking container, was sitting in the middle of the table.

Once the young woman sat down, Gold dug in, dipping out his share and digging in. But next to her, Mr. Madden was clearly waiting for her to begin. She debated a moment and deciding to use manners she'd learned from movies, she put the napkin on her lap. She served herself and took a bite and Jefferson followed suit.

"Dis be good wine," Lacey announced, swilling the glass that Gold had poured for her.

"Thank you. It's Russian River Valley Pinot Noir," Gold told her, pouring her a second glass. "Sorry, I didn't have time to run out to get any Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill." Lacey glared at him but didn't make any reply.

"This is really good lasagna," Jefferson remarked after his second forkful.

"Tastes like Granny's," Lacey observed, shoveling in another bite.

"It is. You know Granny's lasagna?" Gold asked her, surprised.

"I know Granny's ev'rythang," Lacey expanded, taking bites between sentences. "If'n I come t' her place after closin' time, she'd let me eat her leftovers fur free. Not just me, y' know. She gives it out to lotsa folks down on they luck. Granny's an angel."

Gold sat back. "That seems rather generous of her."

"Well, she says she'd just haf t' throw th' leftovers out. This way, thare's no waste an' she does a good deed fur less fortunate folk," Lacey talked with her mouth full as she shared.

Gold sat quietly a moment. "I had no idea."

"You're her landlord, aren't you?" Jefferson asked and Gold nodded.

"You be her landlord?" Lacey had stopped eating and sat up. She wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. "You th' skinflint sonofabitch that won't accept less than th' rent to the penny and it'd better be on time?"

"I am," Gold admitted slowly. "You think I could afford this lifestyle on a professor's salary, even with the occasional book deal?"

"So, ya own some otha prope'ty?" Lacey pursued the point, finishing up her second glass of wine.

"I own . . ." Gold was hesitant to put his investments into words. He refilled her glass.

"He owns about three blocks of downtown, including this building," Jefferson interrupted. "Most of his income is from renting out office and shop space."

Lacey nodded, "Hmm," and finished up her food. She looked around at the rest of the plates and boxes on the table. "You didn't get no cannolis?"

"What are they?" Gold asked.

"Get out!" Lacey exclaimed. "Thay be these li'l pastries stuffed wid saw-weet cheese. I like mine wid a little choc'late on 'em. Thay be one of th' best thangs Granny makes."

"Well, I'll have to be sure I order some next time," Gold said dryly.

Lacey was shaking her head. "Can't believe ya didn't know 'bout Granny's cannolis," she muttered.

"Me neither," agreed Jefferson. "Given your sweet tooth."

Gold glowered under the disbelieving looks of his dining companions, "Well, I'll see to it that things are corrected in the future. Now, Lacey, we should have some proper clothes here tomorrow morning and we'll begin then," he dismissed her abruptly at the end of the meal. "There's a television in your room so you're free to go and watch whatever arse-numbing reality show you follow."

Lacey might have been offended by his comment, but, well, she did have her favorite show, "Tika and Monjo," the on-going adventures of two attractive people with no particular talents and no visible means of support coming on. Tika was scheduled to launch her line of designer baby shoes tonight.

Madden stood as Lacey rose from the table. She wavered on her feet. "Wow, that wine's done got a bit o' kick to it. Nice meal, thank ya, Professor," she told her host.

Madden smiled at Gold after Lacey stepped out. "So, she used the napkin and the fork correctly. And thanked you for the meal. Nice."

Gold shook his head, "Yeah . . . and she downed thirty dollars worth of wine without a hitch."

"Like it was hard? This is good wine," Jefferson told him, pouring the remnants of the bottle into his own glass. "Now, I'm no judge, but I'd say she cleaned up very prettily."

Gold reluctantly agreed. "Yeah . . . almost passably tolerable."

 **The Lessons Begin**

Their first morning together was . . . difficult

Lacey, even with her usual late night work schedule, was still a relatively early riser, and she was at the dining room table by nine, pouring herself some coffee from the large carafe that had been set out on the credenza. She'd sat down at the table, reading over the morning paper, working on the puzzle page. Ms. Potts had come in, surprised to see her, but had then asked her what she'd like for breakfast. Lacey, trying to be accommodating, had said whatever Ms. Potts had on hand.

Ms. Potts looked at her. "How 'bout I bring you a couple of eggs, some bacon, and toast?"

"That'd be nice, real nice," Lacey told her. "I like eggs fixed anyway. Thank ye, ever so."

It was closer to ten when Rumple came down, bleary-eyed and non-communicative. He slouched down in his chair at the table, looking her over as if trying to register the identity of the young woman who was sitting at his dining room table.

He examined her. Lacey had left off her white-blonde wig, but she had troweled on the makeup. She was now dressed in an obscenely short black vinyl skirt, red patent heels which laced up to her knees, and a hot pink tube top. If the room had been five degrees cooler, he was sure he'd be able to see her nipples. _This was worse than the quim-bits she'd been wearing yesterday._

"These are not the clothes I sent for," he finally broke the silence, irritated, disapproving.

"Well, I ain't got no clothes that ya done sent fur yet," she snapped back at him. "Miz P done sent that big guy, Dove, over t' my place t' pick up th' rest of me stuff. There warn't nut'in' else fur me t' choose frum 'ceptin' me own clothes. I cud ware these or just come on t' th' table buck-nekid."

"Oh," he blinked, processing her response and accepting her explanation. "The clothes just haven't gotten here yet. They should be here soon. And then, yeah, Jefferson is supposed to be coming along. I remember now. He'll be taking you out for some more shopping."

"Shoppin'?" she asked, interested.

"Clothes and shoes and . . . stuff."

"I ain't got no money t' pay for such," she protested, but he waved her off.

"Jefferson's picking up the bill. He can afford it and . . . the man likes to shop."

They sat in silence a moment, Gold - as if confused as to what to do next - and Lacey - in deep thought.

"Get ya some coffee?" Lacey finally asked him and he'd nodded.

She poured him a cup and then asked, "Sugah? Some o' th' creamer?"

"Black," he muttered. "Where's my paper?"

Lacey brought him the cup and then reached for the paper that was at her spot to hand to him.

She'd already done the puzzle page and he frowned. But before he could say anything, Ms. Potts announced Mr. Madden.

Gold's flamboyant friend was dressed in a skin-tight red tee with ballooning black silk pants. He bounced into the room and bowed to Lacey.

"Mr. Jefferson, what can I get you for breakfast? Your usual?" Ms. Potts asked.

"Oh, you remember, you doll, you," he told her, blowing her a kiss.

Ms. Potts nodded, "A two egg-white omelet with mushrooms, green peppers, black olives, tomatoes and no onions."

"I should be marrying you. You _will_ come to work for me and Viktor when we get our household set up."

"You can't afford me. Mr. Gold pays me three times what I could earn in any other job.

"But, I'm so much nicer to be around," he cajoled her.

"Nice won't pay for my son's college tuition," she told him.

"Well, keep me in mind, if you ever get fed up with him," Jefferson told her.

"Are you trying to steal my help?" Gold asked him.

"Of course. I'd made a similar offer to Dove earlier but he turned me down too." Jefferson replied off-handedly. He then added to his breakfast order, "Oh darlin', if you've got any greens, I'd like some of them on the side."

Mr. Potts just shook her head and went back to the kitchen.

Jefferson casually made himself at home and poured himself some coffee adding a prodigious amount of sugar before sitting down at the table.

"Greens?" Lacey asked him, turning up her nose.

"Oh, it's the latest breakfast fad – greens for breakfast. I tried them as a lark, but now, my day just doesn't seem complete unless I've begun it with a bowl of cooked turnip greens or collards or kale . . . or even chard," he explained.

"Them air good wid white vinegar," Lacey nodded. "But I ain't never had 'em fur brekfist."

"Really?" Jefferson had responded and was about to make further comments when Gold interrupted.

"First lesson, Lacey. I don't ever – ever - want to hear you say 'ain't' again. It's low class. You may substitute: am not, is not, are not, isn't, or aren't. Less common, but still acceptable substitutions, depending on grammatical circumstances are: have not, has not, do not, does not, and did not, along with their associated contractions." He spoke quickly and sharply.

Lacey swallowed and nodded. "Sure 'nuff," was all she said. She looked closely at the man, his fumbling movements, his ready wincing at sounds and blinking at lights _not to mention his irritability_. Then she narrowed her eyes. "You'd feel bunches better if ya drank some water. It'd help wid ya hangover."

"If I'd been allowed to sleep until a decent hour, I wouldn't have had the hangover. As it was, you woke me at the arse-crack of dawn, clamoring down the stairs like a rash of drunken pirates tap dancing on wooden legs," he retorted. "A lady is light on her feet and . . . oh, fuck it all." It was just too hard at the moment for him to maintain his lecture. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing his head and ceasing his instruction.

"You poor thang," Lacey stood and went over to him. "Lemme give ya a li'l hea-ad mass-age. I'm good, really good. Ya'll feel better fur it."

He watched her, not entirely trusting her, but allowing her to work her magic fingers over his scalp and down his neck.

"You real tense," she observed.

"Jefferson?" Gold had closed his eyes and was relaxing into the massage. "Can you work on her managing the stairs without all the clomping and stomping?"

"Surely," his friend promised. "What else did you have in mind?"

"Uh . . ." Gold was momentarily distracted by Lacey's skillful fingers. "This is good. You could earn your living doing this . . ." he opened his eyes, "Oh, yeah, you do."

Lacey just smirked at him and gave him a few last petrissage movements before returning to her seat.

Jefferson repeated his question, "What else did you have in mind for Miss French and me this morning?"

Gold drained his first cup of coffee and began to expound on his proposed educational curriculum while Lacey dutifully got up to get him a refill. He shared that he thought Jefferson could help with the surface things, like clothing and makeup and . . . maybe . . . with some of the social skills, like dancing and dining and topics of conversation. Gold would give him the morning hours to do his work. Afternoons, however, were Gold's time to work his magic and he would be teaching pronunciation and grammar to the hapless Miss French.

The man droned on and on, apparently enchanted with the sound of his own voice and Miss French found herself drifting off, her attention instead consumed by the abrupt awareness that she was drinking out of a really fancy china cup. It was white with a little blue flower painted on it – _sweet._ She held it up and looked under the bottom.

 _Wedgwood. The cup was Wedgwood. That meant something to her like it was this really high-end china. This cup and saucer could well cost more than her entire outfit._

"Lacey!" she heard him shouting at her.

She startled, "Sir?" And now her attention was fixed on him.

"I was asking how you would feel about servicing any of our friends who happen to come into town," he repeated himself.

Lacey stood, the cup dropping onto the wood floor. All three heard it chink.

"That was a joke," he clarified. "You were obviously not paying attention and I needed to pull you back in," he explained.

Lacey glared at him, but then picked up the cup.

It was chipped.

"Oh, Professor G," Lacey began hesitantly, "I . . . I thank, I . . . " she held it up for him to see. "It's only a li'l chip. I thank we might . . . we might be able t' get some super glue an' fix it." She was on the floor, groping around looking for the chip.

She was nervous. As much of an ass that the man was, he was still her best _and only_ hope for a new life. _Would he kick her out for breaking his probably priceless cup?_

Gold shrugged, looking around the table and down upon her, "It's only a cup."

She breathed a sigh of relief. _All right then. He didn't seem angry. She pulled herself together._ She slipped back into her chair and sat up, looking at him.

At that moment, Ms. Potts came in, carrying a large paper shopping bag. "I think this has the items you were waiting for, Mr. Gold."

He glanced in the bag and handed it off to Lacey. "Please change and do it as soon as possible," he told her.

 **A.N. Yes, I'm well aware that "cannoli" is the plural for "cannolo," but Lacey doesn't know this. -twyla**


	3. Open up a Jar

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Open up a Jar**

Lacey took the shopping bag from the professor.

She stood, hesitating before leaving the room to change. "So . . . we go shoppin' first an' then th' teachin' stuff starts?" she directed her question to both men.

"Exactly. My first goal, with Jefferson's help, is an entirely new wardrobe. That bag just contains something decent for you to wear this morning."

"Wha's so wrong wid my clothes?" she asked him.

He looked at her sternly, his eyes flicking up and down. "You look like someone who could give a man a disease. You dress like a road whore. Your . . . 'wares' are all on display. A lady is modest, subtle, her clothes hint at what lies beneath." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "She doesn't need to display her cleavage or advertise that she has . . . or is . . . a cunt," he told her, shutting off any comments she might have made. "Jefferson has better taste and a far better sense for women's clothing than I do. I'm sending you out to a couple of stores with him. Then this afternoon we'll begin work on your grammar and elocution lessons."

She looked down at her clothes. She always thought she had fashion sense and . . . well, her clothes got men to notice her and that was the business that she was in.

 _But, she knew, it wasn't the business she wanted to be in. She'd give this new wardrobe thing a trial - after all, free clothes were nothing to sniff at._

"If you're finished eating, go ahead and get changed - please," he told her, dismissing her. "I'll call up for you when Jefferson's ready to set out. Oh, and wash your face."

"Whut?!" she was about ready to snap back at the man.

Jefferson spoke up, "You're very pretty without all the war paint. Just use a little lipstick and some mascara, Miss French. That's all you'll need for this morning's excursion."

"Yes Mr. M." she answered meekly.

She returned to her room and opened the sack. It contained a little sundress. She slipped it on. It was a pretty blue color and fitted in the waist. It had a square neckline and a full skirt. Lacey thought it was dowdy at first but when she looked hard at herself in the big mirror, she decided it wasn't too objectionable. She combed out her hair and pulled it behind her ears.

"Well, I look like somebody's milkmaid," she thought. She cleaned off her face and complied with Jefferson's suggestions for just a little lipstick and some mascara. She added a second coat of mascara and rubbed it vigorously with her finger, creating a smudged effect. She dabbed her finger on the lipstick and touched it on her cheeks, rubbing it in. And then she added a second layer of lipstick. She still felt like she was about to go out half-naked.

She set about waiting, but got bored after the first five minutes and, tanked up on caffeine, she began to explore the second story. She didn't want to stumble into the man's bedroom, _lord knows,_ so she avoided doors that were closed, but she did find one other guest bedroom. She then quietly made her way downstairs, tiptoeing outside the door of the dining room where Mr. Gold was still reading the paper and talking with the nice Mr. Madden. There she found what appeared to be a small study – _a rather messy one_ – and, she stopped in her tracks.

The man had a room, an entire room, devoted to books. His very own freakin' home library.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was all shiny and polished and everything was exactly in place. She slipped off her heels to wiggle her toes in the plush patterned carpet. She brushed her hands against the walls, delighting in the soft embossed fabric that covered them. The same rich fabric covered the floor-to-ceiling windows at one end of the room.

In the middle of the room was an enormous pool table – far nicer than anything she'd ever played on. She stepped around it and began perusing the shelves. She found a few of her childhood favorites on the shelves. And oh, she found many books that she'd wanted to read but had never had the time or opportunity. She pulled out _Ivanhoe_ and settled into one of the leather-upholstered chairs that was set near the window.

She was lost in the reading when she began to hear voices, Professor Gold's of course, and Mr. Madden's. And now there was another voice she thought was familiar. She began to listen more closely.

"Father?!" she thought. _What in the cat hair was he doing here?_

 **Gone by Monday Mornin'**

"Now, what is your business with me?" she could hear Gold talking.

"I understand that you've taken to supportin' me daughter."

"She's agreed to participate in an experiment for me," Gold explained.

"Well, that doan sound right. I dun some rank things, but I never did no exper-mentin' on any young women."

"There's nothing untoward going on here," Jefferson assured him.

"You're welcome to take her home," Gold offered. "I don't have to experiment on her. I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult to find another young woman interested in bettering herself."

"No, no, no," her father protested. "We doan half to be hasty. I just wunted t' be sure you waren't doing no traffickin' or some such."

"Your daughter's virtue is as intact as it was when she first came through my door," Gold assured him.

"Now, that's a relief. But whut air ye doin' wid her?"

"Why don't I have you talk with her." And Lacey heard him call to her. "Lacey!"

Reluctantly, she came out of the library to face her father.

"Wow, darlin'. You doan look like yourself," her father told her.

"Mr. Gold likes me to dress more . . ." she considered, hunting her neglected vocabulary fund for the right word, "more pruddee." Lacey looked her father over. He wasn't looking any too good. "Why you here, Daddy?"

"Checkin' on you," he answered.

She snorted. "Right. How'd ya' even find me?"

"Keith called me, askin' where you was. I talked wi' Smee at th' front desk o' de hotel an' he said dis big guy had come an' paid yo' bill up an' took yo' stuff on t' dis address."

It didn't surprise Lacey that Smee hadn't spilled her new locale to Keith – the two men didn't like each other.

"So, you was all concerned 'bout me? Like when I was livin' at th' hotel workin' fur Keith, ye came t' check on me? The one time ye did come, it t'was just to borree money. You know, I was in some real danger there. So, why are ye really here?" She turned back to Mr. Gold, "He's gonna try t' touch you some, fur money."

"I anticipated as much, Lacey. Let me finish this conversation with your father," he told her with a smile. He looked at her pointedly and then looked back at the door to the library.

She realized she was being dismissed – yet again. _"Oh darn," she thought. "No way this can work out good."_

"She's right, ye know," Mr. French admitted.

"You're here for money. Curious. If I refuse . . . what will you do?"

"Oh, I'll go to th' po-lees and tell 'em that ye're holdin' m' daughter against her will, likely fur nee-farious purposes."

"I doubt any of that will stick," Gold told him.

"Oh, prob'bly not, but it t'would be a nuisance fur ye'."

"That it would," Gold agreed. He'd poured himself a drink of whiskey and offered one to Mr. French who eagerly accepted it. "So, how much would you be wanting to just . . . go away?"

"One thousand dollars," Mr. French told him.

"Just one thousand?! You'd sell your daughter to a stranger for one thousand dollars?"

"That's 'bout right," Mr. French replied.

"Why don't I give you ten thousand?" Gold asked him, curious as to what the man's response might be.

"Oh no," Mr. French refused. "See, ten thousand be a lot and I'd be tempted to put it in th' bank an' then I'd worry about it an' how I would spend it. An' Belle, that'd be Lacey's real name, Belle's step-mommer, well, she'd be wantin' to get married an' us become respect'ble an' all. But wid just one thousand, I kin take out th' woman an' we kin party an' buy a couple rounds for me buds an' have a grand ole time - without feeling guilty, y' know. It'll all be gone by Monday, I kin assure you."

"Wait," Jefferson began. "Where's Lacey . . . uh . . . Belle's mother?"

Moe French managed to look sad, "Th' sainted soul tha' she was, she done passed on an' is in a better place." He wiped his eye. "I miss her ev'ry day, but a man's got t' have a li't somethin' somethin', y' understand? Th' woman I live wid now has stuck it out longer than th' others an' it'd please me t' show her a good time."

"And you're not married to this woman?" Jefferson clarified.

"Hell, I t'warn't married to Belle's mum an' I loved that woman. Dis way, wid me current missus, we're both free t' indulge ourselves wid others, if it ever comes up," and the man winked at Gold.

Gold nodded and briefly disappeared into his study, returning with a handful of cash which he handed to Mr. French. Lacey's father took the money and assured Gold, "Ye won't regret this. I won't be returnin' an' this money will all go fur drinkin' an' partyin' an' it'll be gone by Monday mornin'."

"Remarkable man," Jefferson observed as the older man made his way out of the apartment under the watchful, disapproving eye of Ms. Potts.

"Yes, it is an interesting gene pool we're diving into," Gold told him.

 **Compromise**

Lacey had a great time out with Jefferson. He took her into some really nice stores, little specialty boutiques that Lacey would have never have had the nerve to go in without him – high-toned and exceedingly pricey. He flirted shamelessly with staff, who fawned over him, and the man clearly had a sense for women's fashions. Jefferson was also generously kind and clever with his choices as well as his suggestions. Lacey quickly learned to, at least, try on what he picked out for her, often surprising herself in how good she looked in his selections.

They ended up with a solid array of options, including some things that Jefferson referred to as "wardrobe basics" – several pieces in black – a pencil skirt, a silk tee, a simple dress that was made of some luxurious fabric. And he got her a beautiful brown leather jacket. He added several colorful pieces, including a pleated skirt, a little gathered skirt, and some pretty blouses. There were a couple of little form-fitting dresses that she thought looked good on her and he added those to the stack. He added a couple of blazers.

And he also added some accessories, like scarves and some _what she thought was_ plain jewelry. He informed Lacey that accessories could make or break an outfit. He made arrangements for the items to be sent back to Gold's apartment.

"Y' know," she told him as they walked down to Tops, the big shoe store off Rutledge, "y' paid waaaay too much fur that tee shirt. We cudda gone t' th' Target an' found one fur a couple o' dollars."

"But it wouldn't have been made of dupioni silk and keep its shape like the one I got you."

"But I cud get ten fur the price o' that one," she argued.

"It's a reflection of class," Jefferson tried to explain. "The eye can tell the difference between an eighty-dollar tee-shirt and an eight dollar one."

"If ya say so," she shook her head dubiously.

But, once in the shoe store, she stopped and looked around. "I can't be wearin' any o' them fugly shoes," she told him honestly.

"Which ones are those?" Jefferson asked her, smiling.

"You know. Th' ones wid th' round toes an' no heel an' all plain lookin,'" she told him.

"I think we can compromise between the club wear and the fugly shoes," he promised her. "You'll need at least three pairs, black pumps of course, and an everyday, comfortable slip-on sandal and something prettier for evening."

Lacey did find a strappy heel which met his standard for "something prettier" and once he gave this one his okay, she was agreeable to the plainer black shoe and a simple white sandal. She opted to wear the sandal. Again, Jefferson had everything else sent to Gold's apartment.

He took Lacey out to lunch at Curaté. She puzzled over the menu and, at Jefferson's request, she allowed him to order for them both.

"I'm impressed with your fortitude, Miss French," he told her as they waited for their food.

"Whut now?" she asked him.

"Your bravery and nerve and willingness to put up with Mr. Gold," he explained.

She shrugged. "Well, I do 'preciate whut ya done did fur me this mornin.' I'm usta my clothes being all second, maybe third-hand, y' know. I shops a lot at resale stores an' doan often get much fresh off th' rack, 'ceptin' on sale. I tell ya, I ain't never had nobody buy me so much nice stuff an' all at once. An' without 'spectin' not'in.'"

"Oh, I have expectations," Jefferson enlightened her. She looked slightly alarmed, but then he explained, "I expect you to work hard and do your best. I'd like . . . I'd love to see you succeed in this endeavor."

"Oh," she thought she might be blushing. "That's so sweet."

He hesitated, "Uh . . . Miss French, do be careful around Mr. Gold."

She looked up. "Whut? Is he gonna try sum'thin'? Shud I git a lock fur me door? A gun?"

Jefferson seemed to be searching for the right words. "No, nothing like that. It's just that, while I know the man can seem difficult . . ."

Lacey snorted.

Jefferson sighed and continued, "He's been through some tough times, especially where women are concerned."

Lacey understood. "Oooh, you thank I'm gonna try t' git him in the sack?" Lacey shook her head. "Oh honey, he ain't . . . isn't my type."

Jefferson smiled at her. "Yeah, I've heard that before, but my friend always seems to be the one to end up getting hurt."

"Well, right now you got reason to thank I might hurt him. But I ain't . . . I'm not gonna break his heart. I thank you got more t' worry 'bout that I'm gonna open up a jar o' whoop-ass . . . maybe do sum'thin' untoward wid a pool cue to th' man."

Jefferson's mouth twitched, "Ah, angry sex with a pool cue – takes me back to my college days."

Lacey frowned. "Eueh," she told him. "I'm serious, ya' know, 'bout Professor Gold. 'Specially if'n he keeps bad-mouthin' me like he's been doin'. I know whut I am and whar I come frum, but I'm takin' this serious and I'm gonna do my best."

"I'll mention it to him. Maybe he needs to tone down the rhetoric, but . . ." he paused, "remember, Miss French, he wants you to be successful in this venture also. He can be an ass, but he is trying to help you."

"Y' know, I din't understand 'bout half of whut you just said, but I'll try to listen and be good," she promised him.

 **Back in the Apartment**

Lacey bounced back into Gold's apartment in high spirits. Of course, Gold took the wind out of her sails by telling her to "walk." She stopped and began taking more sedate steps.

But she had enjoyed herself on the shopping trip and the experience of having nice, new things was a novel one; she wouldn't allow him to take it away from her. Lacey took out a few moments to try some of the new things on for a second time and examined herself in the large mirror in her room. She did look nice, she decided, kinda classy. Professor G. would certainly have to approve of these clothes. She decided to keep on the little blue sundress and white sandals to go to the man for her round of lessons. She liked the aura of innocence it provided.

As she ran a comb through her hair, she considered. She didn't know why she was taking care with her looks just to go and work with Professor Gold. It wasn't like she wanted him to approve of her. She looked at herself in the mirror again.

 _Not that he wasn't an attractive man, with his pretty brown eyes and clever hands. Oh, and he exuded energy, tightly contained, encapsulated, all threatening to explode just any moment. A girl might easily get swept away in the storm of his personality._

 _Earlier, she had realized that he was good friends with Mr. Madden, who was so very overtly gay. Being a close friend of Mr. Madden, Lacey had assumed that Professor G. was most likely a former lover of the man who'd then settled into the role of being a good friend._

 _But after Mr. Madden's little speech, she now knew that Professor G had a history of being involved with women. So, was he a gay man who dabbled with women, or was he bi or, maybe a straight guy with a gay friend?_

 _She knew, now, that he'd been burnt and wouldn't possibly be interested in her . . . or any woman._

 _And she shrugged it off - whether or not he approved or disapproved of her didn't count for her getting what she wanted out of their deal._

He had been waiting for her and was not in a good mood.

 _Oh yes, he acknowledged – to himself – that she looked very nice – very nice indeed. He had not expected her to clean up so pretty, damn beautiful, actually._

 _He shook himself._

 _He was here for The Experiment and her looks were a mere secondary consideration._

 _Anyway, it didn't matter if she liked him or not. Besides, she'd hardly be interested in him even if such nonsense were in the cards._

 **The First Lesson**

At best she might hope for a quick ending – perhaps a gunshot to the heart or a header off a three-story building.

 _Please, please, sweet baby Jesus_ , she prayed. _I awaits yo' lovin' embrace._

 _KMN_.

Anything would be better than what she was going through.

It was not fun.

The old shithead had made her practice saying words over and over to master the enunciation.

 _Not so handsome now, was he?_

And now he was grilling her in basic grammar. She had some vague memories of the grammar from her schooling, but, at first, what he wanted from her seemed such an unnatural way to talk. She balked at some of the exercises and rolled her eyes at some of Gold's suggestions.

"Keep rolling your eyes," he told her sourly. "If you keep at it, you just might find a brain back there."

"I ain't stup . . .," she began to protest, but then bit her lip and corrected herself. "I'm not stupid."

"Well, dearie, you talk that way," he was ruthless. "Compare the phrases, 'We ain't got nern,' and 'We haven't any.' You tell me if two different people uttered these sentences, who would you would think has three digits in their IQ?"

"Well, talkin' pretty doan mean you smarter," she argued.

"You think not? The difference is, I can talk like an ignorant tosser as well as the educated person I am. Can the ignorant tosser talk like he's educated or is he confined to one mode of expression?" Gold pressed her.

She couldn't dispute this _but she didn't have to like it._

 **A Week Later**

Without the late evenings, Lacey had found herself waking up earlier and earlier and, now carefully she'd walk as quietly as she could down the stairs. She was often at the breakfast table by seven where she would do the puzzle page and read in _Ivanhoe._ She found the reading slow going, but took her time and puzzled her way through the more difficult phrasing and vocabularies of the book.

Gold would typically and reluctantly drag out of his own room by ten and sit quietly at the table. Lacey would bring him his coffee (often with a couple of aspirin). She would supplement his coffee with a tall glass of water that she would encourage him to drink. She'd urge him to eat a little, just a little.

He clearly wasn't a morning person and, even in his best mood, not someone who engaged in idle chatter, so these mornings were generally spent in blissful silence. When he would close his eyes and rub his head, Lacey would often give him a scalp and neck massage which would certainly put him in a better mood. Then Jefferson would join them and Lacey would spend the rest of the morning with him.

Now, Jefferson, Mr. Madden - she looked forward to her time with him. He was pleasant, funny and always kind. He had scheduled her for a flurry of appointments, hair, brow, makeup, waxing, manicure, pedicure, the list went on. She was fine with the body buffing activities, but the makeup was a sore point.

They had argued, engaged in heated discussions and disputed each other's opinions. Lacey agreed to tone down her over-the-top makeup but she had refused Jefferson's advice of "eyes or lips, but not both."

"I'm not a lesbian," she'd told him. "Eyes an' lips both air just fine." But she did begin to exercise some restraint, using more natural colors (and less of them).

Then there were other mornings that Jefferson would spend chatting with her about the book she was reading or review her on table manners or just talk with her.

He also began teaching her some genuine dance steps.

But, afternoons, her stomach in a knot, she would spend being harangued by Gold, who often raised his voice when working with her and always seemed to be badgering her, pushing her.

He bullied her anytime, every time, she protested, threatening to turn her out, but for some reason, she persisted _and he never turned her out_.

She really did want more out of her life than giving hand jobs to strange men (and some of them had been pretty strange). She was smart enough to know that what she had been doing was dangerous, that she could get hurt, assaulted, forced into prostitution, killed. Even at his most unpleasant, what Gold was offering her was still more attractive than what she'd been doing.

Besides, the man had an impressive library.


	4. Vulnerabilities

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Vulnerabilities**

Lacey was seriously thinking of taking up drinking as her new hobby – there certainly was enough booze in the house. The man didn't drink beer, the beverage she was most familiar with, nor was there any tequila – always good for a quick drunk. But there was wine, some of which was pretty potent, she'd discovered that when she'd stood up after a couple of glasses. And there was whiskey, _oh my word, there was whiskey_.

He'd sometimes offer her whiskey in the late evening. She had turned it down several times before her curiosity got the better of her and she'd accepted a small glass. She nearly spewed. The damn stuff burned, made her eyes water and caused an uncontrollable coughing fit. He didn't laugh which made her feel better.

"It's an acquired taste," he'd told her, gently, getting her some water.

"How? I mean, how . . . why . . . did you go 'bout acquiring th' taste?" she asked him, trying to regain her composure. "I'd think gasoline wud taste better th'n that stuff."

"There's a smoothness, a subtle sense of flavors and power buried in the fire of the drink. It . . . it beckons me," he told her with a smile.

 _All right, so the man did have a certain level of charm._

She thought him handsome enough – certainly, the impression of old money he projected didn't hurt her perceptions of his attractiveness. But there was something else there.

Yes, he was brilliant – and having never been around brilliant people, she was fascinated. He was self-assured – and having never been around confident people, she was intrigued.

She also recognized that he was dangerous but dangerous in a different way from Keith, who was like as not to use his fists, or pull a knife or a gun on you. Not Professor Gold – _although she did sense a level of violence in the man, tightly controlled, coiled, at the ready, but buried deep below the surface._ But, more likely, Professor Gold was a man who could pull strings and turn you out of your apartment, cause you to lose your job, reduce you to living on the streets and eating out of dumpsters.

She considered. He was dangerous in other ways also. He was bitter and caustic and very much alone - a man not interested in relationships, love or friendship. She knew she should keep herself as distant as she could.

It wasn't hard.

He pushed her away at every turn.

 **A Vulnerable Moment**

Ms. Potts had her evening off for the week (she actually got two days off each week plus three evenings). Lacey had fixed herself a hamburger and poured herself a glass of sweet tea and sat down in Ms. Pott's pristine kitchen watching "Tika and Monjo." Tika was taking her cat to his therapist and Monjo was considering if he should buy a cajun-fusion restaurant franchise – that . . . or adopt a man bun.

After watching her show, Lacey read, nearly finishing her book but suddenly becoming aware that it was after eleven. She put her dishes in the dishwasher and started it going before heading back upstairs. As she walked the dimly lit halls, she heard a snuffling noise coming from Professor Gold's study. She stopped and peeked into the darkened room.

He was there - sprawled on the sofa. He looked a mess. He was sitting on the big cushy sofa that was in the study, his jacket off, his tie off, his shirt half unbuttoned.

 _It was disconcerting. The man always looked so well put together and to find him looking like . . . well, just any other slob . . . meant there . . . there just might not be order in the universe._

She stepped into the room – it had never been forbidden but she didn't feel comfortable in the place. It was airless and stuffy, even more so tonight. It was clearly his private domain with stacks of papers, books and sundry in too many tidy piles. As she stood in the doorway, she considered asking if he was all right, but it was so clear that he wasn't all right. When he didn't order her out, she came on into the room and sat down beside him.

He sniffed _good lord, had he been crying?_ He was cradling a glass of amber liquid in one hand, the bottle it had come from was at his feet.

She gently laid her hand on his shoulder, expecting him to flinch away, but he just sat there.

After a moment he laid his hand on top of hers.

"I fucked up," he said, his voice cracking.

Lacey waited.

"I fucked everything up. Big time. Can't go back. Can't fix it. Forever fucked."

Lacey still sat quietly, allowing him to share what he was comfortable sharing.

"She took him. I didn't think she'd come back for him, but she did and . . . there was enough stuff on me . . . against me . . . I couldn't get custody." He took a drink, draining the glass, and continued, "I kept up my end, you know. I sent money every month. I sent presents on his birthday and Christmas and - sometimes, just when I'd come across something I thought a boy his age would like . . . and I wrote letters."

He fumbled around, dropping the empty glass, and picked up the bottle, drinking directly from it.

"I wonder, I just have to wonder, if he ever got any of the presents, any of the letters. I have to wonder if she took the money I sent for him and spent it on a week in Cancun for herself and her paramour."

Lacey was struggling. _He must be talking about one of the women that Jefferson had told her had hurt him. And there had been a child?_

Professor Gold sniffed again. "He refuses to have any contact with me. I try every year. Let him know, my door is open."

"This is your son?" Lacey ventured a guess.

"Yeah. The most precious thing I've ever had in my life. And I let him slip through my fingers." He took another swig. "I should have had his mother investigated. Looking back, there had probably been a lot of other men, alcohol, maybe drugs, hell, I don't know what all. But," he turned toward Lacey, "I didn't want to make the boy think his mother was a drunken whore. What kind of father would do that to his son?"

"Not a father who loved his son," Lacey murmured.

"But he won't see me. He won't take a call from me. He's not even using my last name. Goes by Cassidy."

Lacey just sat quietly. _There was certainly nothing she could say or do to fix this kind of hurt._

 _But whatever the problem, she knew that sitting all by yourself in a dark room drinking yourself shit-faced never helped._

"Can I help you get up to your bedroom?" she asked him softly.

"No. I don't think I can walk. This is my second bottle."

She nodded. There was a long pause and she was about to leave when she heard him whisper, "Stay . . . with me, please."

 _Oh, how could she walk away now?_

She nodded and shifted so that she was sitting close to him, thigh to thigh. Her arm went around him and she rested her fingers in his hair.

She was surprised when he tugged her in so that she was resting on his chest. He shifted, pulling her down so that they were now lying on his sofa, his back to the back of the sofa and her back to his stomach and chest, spooning, cuddling.

He just held her and she allowed it. She sensed the man was in the throes of some past trauma-demon that had come back to haunt him. Companionship was probably the only thing she could offer him, the only thing anyone could offer.

It was much later when she felt his lips ghost her neck, causing nice feelings to pool between her legs. She felt the heat of his body and heard him whisper, "You smell like cookies."

Her plan had been to wait until he fell asleep _or passed out_ and then slip away. But instead, she dozed off, not quite comfortable on the sofa, but not distressed enough to remain awake. It wasn't like she was having to fend him off or even stop him from copping a couple of feels. Nothing like that. His hand stayed solidly in the strike zone, resting on her waist, although in their close connection, she couldn't help but be well aware of his morning state when morning light began to filter into the room. She slipped out of his grasp and off the sofa. She went upstairs to grab a shower and change of clothes.

When Jefferson came over for breakfast, Professor Gold was still in his study, asleep on the sofa. Jefferson saw the state his friend was in and shook his head.

"I forgot it was that time again. Miss French, I'm sorry. If I had realized, I would have given you a heads-up. Every year he marks the anniversary of when he lost custody of his son by drinking himself into a stupor. I've managed to get him through about ten of these episodes but lost track when I moved to New York."

Jefferson considered his next move. "He's going to need to sleep this off. I'd say, let's drag his sorry ass up to his bedroom and put him in his bed. It has to be more comfortable than this sofa."

"Oh, I don't know," Lacey told him, helping him get the befuddled Professor into an upright position. "It was pretty comfortable last night."

"Oh?" Jefferson asked, putting Gold's arm over his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. He addressed Gold, "Come on, bubbala. Left, right, left, right." He began to guide his insensible friend out of the room and toward the stairs.

"I found him drinkin', an' jus' . . . well, I ended up lyin' down with him all night," Lacey confessed.

"I thought you told me he wasn't your type," Jefferson teased her.

"I was jus' bein' a friend. He really looked like he needed a friend."

Jefferson had gotten Gold to the bedroom. "You did well, Miss French. You probably did exactly what he needed. Now come help me strip him off to his skivvies and we'll put him to bed."

Lacey hesitated.

"I won't be totally stripping the man – although it is tempting. Just taking off his shoes, socks, pants, and shirt," Jefferson explained.

"All right then," Lacey moved in to take off the Professor's shoes and socks, averting her gaze from the man's trim form which was revealed as Jefferson pulled off the pants and shirt.

"Here now, we'll cover him up and check on him periodically," Jefferson told her.

Downstairs, picking over their breakfasts, Lacey asked, "He has a son?"

"Yeah, from his first marriage," Jefferson told her. "It didn't end well. I suspect that harridan fish-wife fed the kid a bunch of lies about his dad. Rumple's never been able to make any kind of contact with his son and it rips his heart out."

"Is his son in this area?"

"Yeah, which may make it even worse. So close, but so far," Jefferson shared. "Listen, he's going to be down for a while and Ms. Potts is around. She'll keep an eye on him. Are you up for house hunting with me? You promised," he reminded her.

Lacey agreed and went out with Jefferson. She'd done this with him before, gone out with him, given him her opinion of the different houses and apartments he was viewing, prior to him making some recommendations to Viktor. Jefferson and Lacey talked as they drove to the first house to meet up with the realtor.

"You said this happens every year?" she asked.

"Yup, he goes through this every damn year. When I couldn't be here, he would usually drunk dial me and recite this litany of how bad his life is, how every woman he's ever loved has left him, how he doesn't deserve a relationship with his son. It's pretty tough."

"I din't know the man had any real feelin's," Lacey confessed.

"Oh, he has feelings, my darling. Plenty of them." Jefferson paused, "Perhaps, too many of them."

Although they'd been out looking several times before, this time, they hit pay dirt.

"Viktor would love this kitchen. It's all stainless steel and glass – looks like something a mad scientist would have in his house," Jefferson walked around the generously sized room.

"He cooks?" Lacey asked.

"Yeah, always has brews and potions mixing up. And there's a little herb garden out back and the outdoor entertainment area . . . . He'd love all that. And that third bedroom would make a perfect study for me."

"It did have great lighting. The yard wasn't too small?"

"I don't want to have to do yard work. Having something the size of a postage stamp is more than enough."

"Well, you'll need to get Viktor over here right away. The price is good. This one won't stay on the market too long," Lacey advised him as they rode back to Gold's apartment.

"I think so. And, Miss French . . ." Jefferson hesitated. "I wanted to thank you. I was dead-set on an apartment when I started looking, but you encouraged me to at least look at houses and . . . well, with a house like this, we're getting more than what we would with an apartment for less money. Thank you for encouraging me to branch out and consider other options."

Lacey was embarrassed. "Oh, I din't do nothin'," she told him.

"But you did." Jefferson glanced over at her. "I can be kinda impulsive and you slowed me down, made me consider all kinds of things – locations, layouts, views, so many things I would've never thought of. And you've been a real lady throughout this. You have taste and innate class." He hesitated. "You have to know that when I first met you . . ."

"You wudn't've thought it of me," she finished for him.

"No," he admitted. "I wouldn't have. Thank you."

"No," she said softly, "thank you."

When they returned to the apartment, Professor Gold was still sleeping it off. Jefferson kindly suggested, since Miss French had taken the third shift with the man, that he would do the second shift – perhaps she could use an afternoon off.

Lacey realized that she'd not had time to herself in several weeks so she took Jefferson up on his offer. She decided to check in with her best friend. She walked down the street into Granny's Diner and got a big hug from both Granny and her best friend, Ruby, who also happened to be Granny's granddaughter.

"You look fantastic," Ruby told her. "The hair, the makeup, the clothes. Girl, I don't know that I would have recognized you if I'd passed you on the street." Ruby, in her Daisy Dukes and skimpy tank top, sat down across from Belle. "What you been up to, honey?"

Lacey felt herself blushing. _Had she changed that much in such a short time?_ "I'm workin' with this professor on how I talks an' such an' he's been helpin' me with how I dress an' all," she told her old friend.

"Well, you look classy," Ruby told her. "Maybe he could work some with me."

"Oh, I doan think so. He's . . . rather difficult," Lacey told her best friend. _And he's your landlord, the same guy you've been cussing for the past five years._

"Well, I don't need more grief in my life." Ruby smiled at Lacey. "But I have been missin' you so much," she shared.

"Thanks." Lacey agreed, "I been missin' ya'll too. How're things goin'?"

Ruby exhaled sharply. "Amazin'. You won't believe this, but, out of the blue, our old skinflint butthead landlord came by two weeks ago an' . . ." Ruby shook her head.

Lacey held her breath. _What had Professor Gold done?"_

"He lowered our rent! Can you believe that?" Ruby asked her.

"Lowered it?" Lacey found this hard to believe.

"We were stunned. He shrugged it off an' said he'd done some re-structurin' an' . . . well, we're payin' three hundred less now than we were. It's been a godsend! Granny figures I'll be able to make tuition next fall."

"That was nice of him," Lacey told her friend. _So, after finding out that they were helping people, her cranky professor had lowered the rent for her friends. She would never have predicted it._

"Oh, he did ask that we keep it a secret since he hadn't lowered anybody else's rent, but I figured it wouldn't hurt anythin' to tell you," Ruby added.

"No, no," Lacey agreed. "I won't tell anyone."

Still blown away by Professor Gold's kind gesture, Lacey had quietly returned to the apartment. Jefferson, on his way out, let her know that Gold was beginning to stir.

Lacey took a deep breath and went into the man's bedroom. She opened the curtain, letting in the sunlight, and was greeted with a yowl.

"Oh no! Stop it! Take it away! What the hell is it?"

"It's the afternoon sun," Lacey told him. "It's time you were up and about."

He thrashed around in the bed. "Don't want to."

"I understand. But it's past time. What did you do, mix booze and pills?" she asked him.

There was a long pause, "Yes."

She shook her head, disgusted. "You s'posed to be th' smart one."

"I was feeling bad," he offered his excuse.

"Sounds like you were feelin' sorry for yo'self," she came back at him. "Jefferson's tole me, you had a shitty divorce an' you can't connect with yor son. None of that's a reason to do yo'self in and that's what it sounds like you was tryin' to do. Now get up, face the music an' come on downstairs. You need to eat somethin'."

"You don't know what it's like," he muttered.

"This isn't no contest, but if you want to compare shit lists, I'm yor girl." She folded her arms and stood glaring at him from the bottom of his bed.

He glared at her, "Growing up, I never knew if I'd ever get a kind word or a hug."

"Growing up, I never knew if I'd ever get a meal," she responded.

"I don't have anyone special in my life," he added.

"I used to worry if I was gonna be raped or killed by one of my customers," she came back at him.

"My father never wanted me," he admitted.

"You met my dad. He sold me to a complete stranger for one thousand dollars," she answered.

"My mother hates me," he then said.

"My mother's dead" she answered.

He studied her. She was gloriously defiant, sure of herself, and in no mood for any of his nonsense.

He capitulated.

"All right. You win . . . for now. I'll be getting up." Before she could leave so he could dress, he asked, hesitantly, "Lacey . . . ?"

She looked at him.

"Do . . . do I . . . do I owe you an apology?" he finally stammered out.

She realized he wasn't sure what had transpired between them the night before. She decided to answer honestly, "No, nothin' untoward happened. You jus' seemed to need somebody to keep you a little company."

"So . . . I didn't . . . take . . . uh . . . any inappropriate advantage of you or . . . anything?"

"No, not at all."

"I must have been really drunk," he muttered under his breath.

Lacey wasn't even sure if she had heard him correctly.

He did manage to drag out of his room, dressed casually, in jeans and a black t-shirt. He picked over the supper Lacey had pulled together for them - canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. She'd finished up the final chapter of her book and, after excusing herself from the table went to the library to find something new to read.

He'd finished his sandwich and had a little more of the soup when he realized that she'd gone. When he heard some displaced noises, he followed the sounds to the library. He stood at the door and caught his student fumbling around, tilting her head back to see what was on the highest shelves, touching and caressing some of his books like she might . . .

 _Oh, holy Mother Mary, pull yourself together, he told himself._

 _He continued watching her from the shadows. She was like a little ray of sunshine, flitting here and there. The dust she stirred up made her sneeze and he cringed when he saw her wipe her nose on her sleeve._

Lacey had not heard him come into the library. She had re-shelved _Ivanhoe_ , thinking that Rebecca might have been better off going off with the bad boy Templar Knight Brian; she'd seem smart enough to straighten him out. She had been humming to herself while she looked for another book.

"Come in to find something to steal?" he asked her, startling her and she turned to look at him. "Or are you in here to play pool?" She wouldn't have predicted it, but he wore the jeans and tee-shirt well. It was a softer look than his usual formal black suit.

"I done told you, I ain't no thief," she answered quickly, recovering. "I'm not a thief," she corrected herself. "I plays . . . I play . . . a little pool, but if you got to know . . . if you have to know, I come in here 'cause I like to read and I wanted t' get a book."

He looked at her for a moment, "I didn't know you could read."

"I never had much time t' read 'tween workin' an' sleepin', but I would sometimes get books from the li-baree."

"Library," he corrected her pronunciation automatically. "Do you have a favorite author?" he asked.

She wiped her nose again on her sleeve. "You'll laugh at me," she told him. _He was being nice to her – she couldn't trust him._

He smiled and sat down in one of the big chairs near the window. He looked at her a moment and seemed to soften, the hard, cynical shell slipping away for the moment.

"Well, I'll begin," he told her. "I prefer the classics which I'm sure you find terribly boring, but I also read an assortment of best sellers. Mysteries, politically themed novels, historicals, lots of non-fiction."

"Well, I'd say them all ware . . . they were all . . . borin' . . . boring, but I likes . . ." she bit her lip and rushed to answer. "I like Jane Austin. She kinda drones on and all, but I like her people."

"The characters, yes. Jane does well with her characters. But she does tend to be wordy." He gave her a gentle smile, then, "This, Lacey, this is a handkerchief," he handed her a white cotton one from his back pocket. "Its purpose is to wipe snot from your nose." He touched her sleeve, "This is your sleeve. Its purpose is to cover your arm. Don't get them confused again."

Back to being the shithead.

So much for a nice conversation.


	5. Betrayals

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Betrayals.**

They'd been together now for more than three weeks – the drunken evening and night spent cuddling together on a sofa a far-off event. Today there had been a particularly difficult afternoon with Gold losing his temper with her more than once. Half the names he called her she didn't even know, but she knew he was calling her names. She'd gotten upset – she'd thought she'd been making progress but apparently, her performance was not up to his standards.

She had been about ready to stomp out of the room and go to her room for a good cry when he surprised her.

"Why don't we go out and get a bite to eat," he suggested. _He'd realized he'd been suffocating the entire afternoon, enveloped in a soothing, sweet cookie scent that he'd finally recognized was the young woman herself. He'd gotten distracted wondering if her creamy skin would be soft and smooth if he touched it, wondering how she might taste._

And everything was now confounded by snippets of the night they had spent together on his study sofa. She'd come in on him while he was held in paralysis by the alcohol he'd drunk. She had been quiet and understanding – hitting just the right balance of concern and caring. He'd remembered he had not wanted to be alone. He had wanted to be with someone – anyone and she had come and she was so soft and so sweet, so much better than just anyone.

She was perfect.

And she didn't take any shit off of him – kinda refreshing.

He had not meant for The Experiment to go this way, with him falling for The Subject. He knew what she was, where she had come from and, somehow, that had meant that she wasn't worthy of him.

So why, the better he got to know her, why was he beginning to think that he was the one who was not worthy of her?

 _She was affecting him_. And now, he was being more irritable, more of an asshat than even usual, even he could admit that.

All right, maybe he owed her a bit of a break.

"Air you askin' me out?" she wasn't sure.

"This isn't a date, dearie," he quickly informed her, rapidly backpedaling. "This - what we're doing here," he gestured around the room expansively, "It's getting tiresome. I think we need to change our venue. I know you've been working with Jefferson and I want to see how you perform in public."

"I'm doin' good enuf for you to see how I'm doin' in public?" she asked him eagerly, anxious for some mote of approval. "Am I doin' good?" She automatically corrected herself, "Am I doing well?"

"Marginally, perhaps barely passing, a D minus. You seem to be making some small progress in some areas but . . . in others," he sighed. "I guess you can take the girl out of the trash pile but you can't take the trash out of the girl."

Lacey pulled a face at the man but quickly replaced it with a vapid smile before he saw her first expression. Remembering Jefferson's advice, she'd gone to her room and selected a simple dress, a golden-yellow sleeveless dress with a form-fitting bodice and a full skirt. She added a large floral challis scarf that functioned as a shawl. She had her hair piled on her head the burnished curls caressing her neck. She was wearing just a touch of glossy lipstick and some black mascara. She thought she looked pretty good _and was, perhaps, hoping for a compliment from the man – something better than the nasty little insult he'd just handed her._

 _She caught herself as she realized she was pining after the man's approval._

 _What was wrong with her? Why was she hoping for anything positive from him? He didn't really like her - at best he tolerated her. Why did she want to please him so badly? Why did she think it might even be possible to please him?_

 _She had thought that things might have gotten better, less intense at least, between them, after her spending the night with him in the study – but she'd been wrong. If anything, he'd been more distant, more irritable, more prickly._

As she gracefully descended the stairs, she caught a glimpse of him waiting in the study. She thought he looked good, but . . . then, if she were honest with herself, he always looked good. His clothes were always immaculate, tailored to his trim form and he always looked pressed and put-together.

Plus, he had those pretty eyes.

But all that was hard to remember when she was irritated with him. And when he continually berated and belittled her, it was hard not to be irritated with him.

He looked her up and down when she came down the stairs and nodded, "Nice."

Lacey might have melted had she not remembered that he'd just called her trash.

"Where we goin'?" she asked him after she'd slid into the comfy seat of his big, black Cadillac.

He paused, "We don't have reservations anywhere. I . . . I profess I didn't think this through. I'm not usually given to impulsive actions. Do you have any suggestions?"

"You like Mexican?" she asked.

"Not really, but I don't want you to be too challenged. So, Mexican, it is. Which mundane establishment would you recommend?"

"Cantina Funditos," she suggested. "I haint . . . I haven't been there, but everybody's been tellin' me it's real good."

He punched the restaurant into his GPS and they slowly pulled out into traffic. Lacey closed her eyes. _While she had to admit that it was a comfortable ride, she also thought the man drove like he was eighty years old – the slowest, most cautious driver, ever._ She looked at him while he drove – intense, quiet, utterly focused. _She shivered – consumed by the sudden thought of what it must feel like to have that level of attention from the man directed upon herself._

He remained in an unpleasant mood for the entirety of the car ride. He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the family-oriented Mexican restaurant and escorted her inside.

 _Poor thing. He very nearly recoiled from the over-sized sombreros, the religious iconography, the plastic cacti and such that decorated the place._ She quickly saw that she was more familiar with the casual dining setting than her disgruntled, disagreeable companion. She also got that he was non-conversant in Spanish and after (unsuccessfully) asking the waiter several times for "some of that Mexican cheese," Lacey opted to order on his behalf.

" _Por favor, le pinche pendejo quiero queso_ ," she brightly told the waiter who questioned her.

" _Le pinche pendejo_?" the waiter asked, his tone not betraying his amusement.

" _Oh, si_ ," she confirmed, smiling brightly at the waiter.

" _Gracias, senorita_ ," the waiter replied.

"What did you say?" Gold grilled her.

"I just asked that he bring an order of cheese dip to the gentleman," she responded pleasantly.

He watched her while she waited for their food without fidgeting or checking her phone. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was quite the lady. He was pleased with her manners _although he said nothing_.

"You getting along all right with Jefferson?" he finally asked after a lengthy, awkward pause.

"Mr. Madden has been wonderful," she told him. "He's taught me so much."

"I wasn't sure how much time he'd have to give you. He's been pretty preoccupied with pre-wedding demands," he said.

Lacey giggled. "I've got to hear all about them . . . the pre-wedding jitters," she told him. _Jefferson had talked at length to her about his upcoming wedding to one of the city's leading heart surgeons._ "He's also all caught up in looking for a new place to live."

"I'm sure it gets tiresome, but I am genuinely happy for the man," Gold said off-handedly.

Lacey looked closely at Gold and screwed up her courage, "Are you gay?"

He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would you ask that?" he asked.

"Well, I know you done had . . . you had one marriage that didn't last. I ain't . . . I haven't ever seen you with a woman. You dress really well. You're prissy. And you are good friends with Mr. Madden," she listed her reasons.

He frowned. "I'm not prissy," he disagreed with her. "And I'm not gay, not in the least," he said quietly. "Jefferson and I are good friends. We have been good friends for . . . a while, but we're not, never have been, lovers."

"I've never seen you with anyone."

"I've not been with anyone . . . in a while, but I'm definitely not gay. I like women, Lacey. Intelligent, refined, independent women."

 _Not women like herself._ "So, you've done had . . . you've been in some serious relationships?" she pressed him. _Was there just that one failed marriage, or was there more?_

He shook his head and changed the subject. "Lacey French. That's not your real name, is it? I mean, it really does sound like a stripper name."

She dropped her eyes. "My real name is Isabelle Avonlea. Growin' up, I was Belle. Keith told me my name sounded too snooty, so I took my dad's last name and made up a new first name," she confessed. Then she looked up at him, "But you didn't answer my question."

"It's none of your business," he told her.

"It's not," she agreed.

He nodded, apparently satisfied. Their food had come and they ate their meal in silence. He frowned as he watched her drench her food with extra spicy hot sauce and down an extra-large margarita. But she did use her napkin correctly. And he was increasingly aware that he was getting nods from other men in the place who had noticed his attractive companion.

He cleared his throat and started talking again.

"I married young, very young, and it was a disaster. We had a son together, but divorced when he was four." He stopped a moment before continuing, "She had begun sleeping around. Afterwards . . . afterward, I had a few discreet affairs, nothing serious. Now, how about you?" he said quietly.

"I'm not gay either," she told him quickly. But then she hesitated. "A couple of boyfriends, nothin' serious. When I got kicked out by my dad, I hooked up with this big guy, Keith. I let him know up front that I didn't want to do no whorin', an' he let me work as a masseuse. It was an all right deal, 'cept Keith took more 'an half of whut . . . more than half of what I took in . . . I earned." She shrugged. "Still, I had a roof over my head an' ate regular which is more than a lot o' girls could say."

He didn't reply, taking in the information.

They got back to his apartment, Lacey feeling a little buzz from the extra-large margarita she had drunk. Gold poured himself some whiskey. They sat in uncomfortable silence in the library for a while. Restless, Lacey suggested they play a couple of rounds of pool.

"I mean, you do play, right? Or did the pool table come wid th' apartment?" she asked.

"I play . . ." he admitted. "A little."

"Oh, me too. A little," she told him.

And they began a game, both of them frequently missing shots and the play going back and forth.

"I guess, I shouldn't have had that extree-large margariter," she told him, giggling the second time she sent the cue ball into a pocket.

"Well, we both seem to be equally bad at this," he observed. "Should we . . . should we, perhaps, play for something?" he asked blandly.

"You mean like . . . make a bet?" she asked.

"I was thinking like more like . . . . making a deal," he told her.

"Yeah, like whut?"

He considered but then shook his head. "I don't know, maybe the loser will owe the winner a favor," he suggested.

"That's kinda too much pig in a poke fur me," she told him, shaking her head.

"We can be more specific. Nothing illegal," he suggested.

"Nothing immoral?" she asked.

He gave her a feral smile. "All right then. Nothing immoral," he agreed.

She considered and nodded. "If we goan play fur real, let me have stripes. I do better wid stripes."

"Deal," he agreed.

And Lacey lost this game.

 **Eavesdropping**

"Well, I think she's coming along splendidly."

Lacey heard the two men talking downstairs. She knew she shouldn't listen in, but it was just too compelling.

"I don't know." That was the Professor. "I took her out to eat at a Mexican restaurant. She called me the equivalent of a 'fucking arsehole' in Spanish, doused her food in hot sauce and drank a huge-arse margarita. I thought I might have been out with some chica ho."

"Oh, come on, I love you like a brother, but you _are_ a fucking arsehole, in several languages and, so what, if she likes a little heat on her food? As for the booze, well . . . I've been out with you and I can understand why she might need the alcohol to get through the evening," Jefferson explained things easily.

"Oh, well, whatever . . . I may be in over my head with her."

Jefferson chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. I think she's wonderful and has got a great deal of untapped potential."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you not looked at this woman, Rum? She's gorgeous – body, skin, eyes, hair, the whole neat little package. Not only that, she's smart and funny and sensitive and . . . just delightful. Hell, if she was interested in me, I'd consider switching. Are you telling me you're not affected by her? You can stand in the same room she's in, stand next to her and you don't feel anything?"

"Of course not," Gold answered quickly. "She's too young for me and she doesn't like me anyway."

"So, you haven't noticed she's gorgeous?" Jefferson pressed.

There was a pause and Lacey listened closely.

"Of course, I've noticed. Hell, she'd make a dead man come. I just. . . I'm . . . I just can't allow myself to get interested in a woman right now, especially not her."

"Well, do cut her a little slack. She's made tremendous progress. You just need to continue working on polishing her around the edges. She's coming along brilliantly."

Lacey crept back upstairs. So, Professor Gold did find her attractive.

Like any other man.

Like every other man.

Maybe that was why he was being so mean to her, to try to help him keep some distance.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She wouldn't have recognized this person two months ago. This woman looked like she could work in a posh ladies' dress shop. This woman looked like someone a man would take out to a restaurant and not expect a blowjob under the table. This woman looked . . . she looked nice.

Maybe she should stop being such a brat around the man. Maybe she was doing that to help herself keep some distance.

 _She still had the pool games going for her. Why had she lost to him? - holding out for bigger stakes, perhaps?_

 _Why was she continuing to lose to him?_

 _They'd taken to playing regularly for minor stakes – she was losing every game, doing truly stupid shots and dumb moves. She'd have to bring him coffee in the morning - like she wasn't already doing that. Or give him a head and shoulder massage - like she wasn't already doing that. Or work an extra hour on her grammar exercises - like she wasn't already doing that._

Nothing had really changed except they had an hour of time together with just the game and each other's company.

 _Little did the man know - Lacey had learned to play pool in elementary school when her dad was responsible for running a sleazy bar. By middle school, she was beginning to hustle guys for quarters and, when she turned twenty-one, until word about her skill-level got out, she'd been able to earn enough money to pay her rent. She was good, really good._

 _Sooner or later something worthwhile betting for would come up and she'd show her true stripes then._

 **The Ex-Wife**

Another morning and she was going out with the charming Mr. Madden. She quite enjoyed going out with the man. He was pleasant and animated, in many ways quite the opposite of Professor Gold. They had been out looking at pocketbooks and purses this particular morning – Jefferson had told her that the right purse could make or break the outfit. He tended to favor over-sized bags and insisted on leather.

After dropping several hundred dollars on upscale reticules, they had settled in a coffee shop and Lacey got her usual, a dead eye, Jefferson had a latte with almond milk and hazelnut flavoring. She had gotten up to get him some sweetener when she noticed a stunning brunette talking with him. She hesitated but catching his eye and seeing him smile, she returned to the table.

The woman was talking, "I'd heard you were back in town, darling. You look fantastic." She was ignoring Lacey.

"Thanks." Jefferson shifted and turned his attention to Lacey. "I'd like you to meet my very good friend, Lacey French," he told the woman. "Miss French, this is Milah Jones, Mr. Gold's ex-wife."

"Oh fuck, I'll never shake that title – Gold's ex-wife," Milah shook her head. She turned to look Lacey over. "I take it you know my ex-husband."

Lacey had sat down, handing over the little pink packets over to Jefferson. "Yes," she answered.

Milah looked back and forth between Jefferson and Lacey.

"You haven't switched teams, have you Jefferson?" she asked the man.

He laughed, "Not hardly. Miss French is Rumple's current . . ." he hesitated just a fraction of a second, "protégé."

Milah was clearly trying to interpret exactly what the relationship between the younger woman and her ex-husband was, but not making progress. "You're a little young for him, aren't you?" she finally asked Lacey.

"I haven't found his age to be a problem," Lacey sipped her strong coffee. She caught a nearly imperceptible nod from Jefferson. She added, "His experience has been a plus, in fact." And she smiled.

Milah's expression soured, spoiling the woman's dark beauty. "He must have learned a lot since he kicked me out."

"Was that a _very_ long time ago?" Lacey opened her eyes wide,

"Not that long ago," Milah replied sharply. She turned back to Jefferson. "What are you up to now?"

"Not too much. I've got a position teaching theater at UNC and I'll be working with a couple of the local theater groups," Jefferson told her.

"Isn't that a bit of a come down from New York?" the woman asked him.

"It's a change, but for what I'm getting, it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"Viktor?" the woman asked.

"Viktor. I had to accept that he's happy where he is and would never leave his position. He's in line to become chief of staff in a couple of years, once his surgery days are behind him. And I do want him to be happy."

The woman stood, "Well, it's been real seeing you again, Jefferson." She turned, "I've got errands." And she left the coffee shop.

Jefferson was laughing before Milah had made it out of the shop.

"That was priceless, Miss French."

"Am I wrong or is she just an awful woman?" Lacey had to ask.

"Oh, you're not wrong. Rumple caught her in the sack with a younger man and walked away from the marriage . . . but, it hurt him. She was his first love and . . . he never could figure out what he had done, what made him . . . not good enough."

"Oh." _So, this was the wife Professor G. had told her about._ "She's the mother of the son that he's all busted up over not being able to see?"

"That's right. His boy is . . . uh . . . a couple of years older than you. Nice young man, considering . . . well, considering everything." Jefferson looked at her, "Miss French, are you being curious about Professor Gold's personal life?"

Lacey felt herself blushing. "Well, I do spend a lot o' time with the man." She paused, "He does seem kinda closed off like he's shuttin' himself off from other people."

"It's been tough for him. His father and mother had a difficult relationship and he bounced back and forth between them – neither one of them wanting the responsibilities of being a parent. Then, he met Milah and he fell head-over-heels. I think he was hoping that they'd become the family he'd never had."

"He caught her cheatin' on him," Lacey summarized the reason for the divorce.

Jefferson nodded and then said softly. "His friends all knew that she'd been stepping out on him for a while before he stumbled on it. I was afraid that he would still forgive her, even after finding her in his own bed with her lover. But, hallelujah, he grew a pair and kicked her out."

"What happened to her?" Lacey asked. The woman hadn't looked like she was suffering.

"She and her lover got married. What Killian Jones ever saw in her – well, I don't know."

"Killian Jones?!" Lacey couldn't stop herself.

 _She recognized this name._

 _He had been a frequent client – usually not with her but with some of Keith's other girls, some of the working girls._

"Yeah," Jefferson confirmed the name, not catching Lacey's surprise. "He's a pretty enough fellow – if you like tall, dark and handsome. Personally, I go for blonds."

Lacey smiled at her friend. "So, this all kinda soured Professor G. on relationships."

"Oh, there's so much more," Jefferson shared.

Lacey waited. Jefferson was in an unusually talkative mood.

"Maybe a year after his divorce, he embarked on a flaming affair with one of his mother's friends – younger friends, but still, the woman was ten years older than he was. I think he thought they'd get married and he'd adopt her daughter who was maybe a year old."

"But?" Lacey questioned.

"She dumped him for a richer guy. She got pregnant right after her marriage to the guy, but . . ." Jefferson hesitated. "I think that Rumple still wonders if her second daughter just might be his. But, he doesn't have any contact with any of them anymore."

"But he was again betrayed," Lacey summarized.

"Yeah, he was betrayed," Jefferson agreed.

 **A.N. Next chapter – Rumple's mother comes into the story.**


	6. Dancing, Cards, and Sinful Thoughts

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Dancing, Cards and Sinful Thoughts**

 **Chapter 6**

 **The Household**

"You've been good for him, I think," Ms. Potts told Lacey one morning. She'd brought out Lacey's breakfast to her. "I'm cleaning up a lot fewer bottles of whiskey since you've been here."

"Really?" _Lacey thought the man drank far too much – yet, apparently, this was less than what he had been drinking._

"Uh huh," Ms. Potts continued. "And judging by the used towels, I'm guessing he's showering regularly. He's been one to let his hygiene lapse when he gets into one of his funks."

"Is that a common occurrence?" Lacey asked.

"Common enough. For a while there the only pleasure the man seemed to have was evicting people from their place of business or their apartment."

Lacey could well imagine that especially thinking back to the Mr. Gold of her first lesson. _Yes, he had changed a bit - mellowed perhaps._

Ms. Potts hesitated. "I hope I'm not prying or stepping into something that is none of my business . . . but . . . ."

Lacey waited.

"Are you developing feelings for him?" Ms. Potts asked her gently.

Lacey drew back. "Why would you ask that?" she asked, avoiding the question.

"Well, as I said, I don't mean to pry, but I've seen you with him. You're always doing these little nice things for the man. You're fixin' his coffee, pickin' up after him. I know you put some flowers on his desk to brighten the place up. And you bought him some of his favorite peach tarts – he thinks I got them for him and you didn't let on any different."

"I . . . I do like him . . . when he's not being mean, of course."

"He's been hurt, Miss Lacey. I wouldn't want to see him hurt again . . . and . . . well, I wouldn't want you to get hurt either. He's a very difficult man to love."

"I'll keep that in mind, Ms. P. Thanks," Lacey told the older woman.

 **Dancing**

"Can you dance?" he'd asked her one afternoon. The question seemed to come out of the blue. They had been drilling on subject-verb agreement and conjugating regular verbs into the present tense, present perfect tense, past tense, past perfect tense, future tense, and future perfect tense and Lacey thought her head was going to explode.

"Yes, of course," she'd answered quickly – glad for any reprieve from constructing such sentences as "We will have been working on verbs two hours by five o'clock this afternoon."

"I don't mean shaking your nonnies around a pole," Gold clarified snidely. "I mean proper dancing where a man and a woman touch each other. You'll need it for the Governor's Ball."

Lacey closed her eyes. She was not going to get bratty just because he was having one of his meaner moments. "Mr. Madden has been teaching me. He has a friend with the event planning for this Governor's Ball and he found out what music is going to be played, so he's been working with me on proper dancing."

"So, what can you do?"

"I like the waltz," she confessed. "I always thought it was a fuddy-duddy dance, but Mr. Madden's taught me that it's really pretty riské."

"You're using words like 'riské' now?" he asked, arching his eyebrows.

"I did use it correctly, didn't I?" she cornered him.

"You did, not like when you said someone would have bad 'caramel' for parking in a handicapped spot when they weren't handicapped," he reminded her.

Lacey had to smile at her gaffe. "I read a lot and learned a lot of words, but never had a chance to practice them with anyone."

He smiled back at her. "I guess you weren't exactly hanging around with the brain trust."

She laughed, "I remember one time my boss, Keith, called the pizza delivery place cussing them out, calling them everything but a Methodist, because the pizza he'd ordered had come and it was just crust. Turns out he'd opened the box upside down." She remembered Keith's embarrassment, _and - when he realized what had happened, he'd exploded and slapped one of the other girls who had laughed at him._

Gold looked at her a moment and shook his head. He then went over to his vintage record player and put on some music – waltz music. He came over to her and held out his hand. "May I have the pleasure?"

"Can you dance? I mean, with your leg and all?" she hesitated.

"I should be able to last through a single dance," he told her and gave her a slow smile, still standing by her with his hand held out to her.

She looked at him, at his gentle smile, at his hand, and then lifted her own hand, placing it into his. "I'd be delighted," she told him. She felt his arms go around her, his hand on her back.

 _Oh, my_.

He was holding her a lot more closely than gay Mr. Madden ever had, really close. She could feel his strong thighs brushing against hers. And his arms around her clearly let her know who was leading. They were chest to chest and she found herself staring at the little hollow in his neck _wondering what he would taste like if she kissed him there._

 _Wondering what he would do if she tried to kiss him there._

She quickly realized then that the cane was just for show or mostly just for show. He moved smoothly, gracefully and, much to her surprise, she found following his masterful lead easy. Then the pacing of the dance increased and, he pulled her, twirling and whirling, around the room. She found herself breathless. _At least, she told herself it was because of the fast pace of the dance. It wouldn't have been the man's closeness._

When the music stopped, they didn't - and it took them both a moment to realize the song was over and a new song, not a waltz tune, had begun.

They stopped and she looked up, locking eyes with him. They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment.

Finally, he blinked and then stepped back. "That was nice, Lacey. Very nice." He went over and fixed himself a drink.

 _Oh lord, he'd fallen into those blue eyes. He'd seriously considered kissing her in that moment when the dance ended, kissing her hard and thoroughly. She had felt so right in his arms, fitting into him perfectly, following his lead without any difficulties. He couldn't help but wonder what sex with her might be like – would she follow his lead there as well as she had with the dance, would she respond to him as well, come for him?_

 _He was in trouble. He had to push her away._

He cleared his throat. "Uhm . . .yes . . . that was . . . uh . . . nice. Very nice," he stammered out, repeating himself. He poured himself a drink.

"Thank you," she told him, part of her waiting for him to say something mean-spirited just to temper his compliment.

"I think . . . I think you may be ready for a test, a real test of how far you've come – the next step in your education program."

"Really?" she was feeling excited. And nervous.

He took a deep gulp of his drink _he had to do something to calm himself down_. "What I have in mind, won't be easy. You'll be thrown in with people who are experienced in social graces. They've been trained from birth to distinguish wheat from chafe and they will have no hesitation in jumping on any indiscretions, any weaknesses you might show and they will tear you apart, ripping you into tiny shreds and consuming you between them, like sharks on a baby seal. They are true snobs. It will be throwing you into a nest of vipers, worst of which is their Queen, a more evil, manipulative, untrustworthy bitch you'll never meet."

Lacey was now more than nervous. "Where . . . where are you sending me?" she asked.

"My mother's," he answered.

 **Afternoon Tea and Cards**

It was Miss Black's little card playing group. Women would get together every Monday and play bridge and drink tea. It was a cultured affair, by exclusive invitation only, and catering only to the 'already arrived' stratum of society. The attending women would share the concerns of their men at this type of gathering and in turn, these women would influence their men to make certain decisions. The little card playing group was a powerful shadow organization, influencing major decisions, political and business, all from a deceptively sweet, rather attractive, base.

It was fifteen minutes before she expected the first participant to arrive and Miss Black, the matriarch of the group, was most displeased to find her estranged son lounging around in her parlor, picking over the finger foods that had been set out.

"Whatever are you doing here?" she asked her son. "You promised me that you'd never come."

"Well, something came up," Gold responded and began picking over the food.

"Go home at once. My guests are due any time."

"I've come for a purpose," he announced.

"You can't stay. You always say something or do something and offend my friends. And then they stop coming."

"Oh, Mother, you're making a big deal about nothing. People don't mind me."

"They absolutely do," she assured her son.

"Well, be that as it may, I need your help."

"Absolutely not," she replied.

"Hey, I've never come to you for help before and you're always telling me that you want us to be more of a family . . . "

"I've never said anything like that and certainly I don't want you to be here on my card-playing day," she interrupted him.

He ignored her. "This is a phonetic job."

She blinked. "You know I don't have any understanding of your balmy work."

"Well, this isn't a phonetic job," he told her.

"But you just said . . ." she was confused.

He sighed, "Not your part of it. I've picked up a girl, Isabelle Avonlea," he began.

She sat down, "Good lord. Is this a serious relationship?"

Gold pulled a face, "Oh shit, Mother. This isn't a romantic thing."

"Well, why not? The last affair you had was with a woman a decade older than you."

"Oh, Cora. Yes, well, I met her at one of your parties."

"I know," she said dryly. "And that didn't work out. _Quelle surprise._ I tried to warn you that she was a cougar."

"Yes, Mother."

"And she's to be one of my guests today. If that doesn't scare you off . . ."

"We parted on civil terms."

"Just because neither one of you got a restraining order is hardly evidence of 'civil terms,'" his mother chided him.

"Whatever. It's completely over now," he told her.

"Why can't you find a young woman you do like? There are plenty of them out there."

"Oh, Mother, you know I can't abide young women. They're only concerned with how they look and they watch stupid television shows. Plus, they're all idiots."

"Hmmm," she said. "All right then. Tell me about this girl."

"I picked her up off the streets. She's a masseuse."

Miss Black didn't say anything. When she finally spoke, the disapproval dripped through, "A masseuse?"

"I need her to come here and practice everything I've been teaching her about interacting in public," Rum continued, ignoring his mother.

"Absolutely not."

"She'll be fine. I've been working with her for a couple of weeks. She's under some strict rules about her behavior. She's only to talk about religion and politics."

Miss Black closed her eyes and rubbed her nose bridge. "Religion and politics?" she repeated, appalled.

"Of course not, Mother. Now listen to me. She'll be fine. Madden's been working with me and she's got this amazingly quick ear. She's been quite easy to teach because it's like she's learning a whole new language."

"So, this is good?" his mother asked him.

"Well, yes and no. She's got the pronunciation down but now it's more about what she talks about. She doesn't have a lot of filters and sometimes. . . "

The doorbell rang and Miss Black's man-servant answered it.

It was Cora Hart and her two daughters along with her son, Gaston.

Miss Black stood, abandoning her son to greet her guests. "I see you persuaded Gaston to come," she said to Cora, her voice flat. _She didn't approve of men at these gatherings. There were often serious, deep matters to be discussed and resolved and she had not found that men had the temperament for such discussions._

"He's acting as my driver at the moment," Cora explained. Gaston, the young man in question, lounged against the door, obviously bored and feeling put upon by his domineering mother. "He's between jobs right now. I encouraged him to come, hoping he'd impress you and you could let him know if there are any positions available at one of your banks or . . . other businesses."

 _Now she understood._ To her credit, Miss Black was accustomed to her acquaintances asking for jobs for themselves or for family members . . . or friends . . . stray acquaintances . . . current lovers. "Well, I'm sure I can have Cogsworth call him tomorrow to see what might be available." She turned to Gaston. "What sort of training, what skills do you have?" she asked the young man.

"We-ell," Gaston hedged.

"Gaston is more of an idea man," his mother explained on his behalf. "He needs a job where he can be paid for what he knows, not what he does."

"But does he know anything?" Gold asked from the sidelines. He'd been watching the exchange, obviously unimpressed with the young man.

"Oh," Miss Black collected herself. "Cora, I'm sure you remember my son, Rum Gold."

"Of course, I remember Rumple. We ran into each other a little while ago. Took cover from the rain together," Cora said smoothly.

"Ah yes, I'd forgotten that. I was probably drunk," he shared.

"I'm sure you were," Cora agreed.

"Well, never you mind." Miss Black said pointedly, "He was just about to leave."

"Oh, no, Mother. I think I'll make an effort and stay."

His mother wasn't pleased. She smiled, talking through her teeth, "Are you sure you don't have anything else to do?"

He smiled pleasantly. "I am."

"There may not be a place for you. We're playing in groups of four, bridge, spades, and hearts, depending on people's preference," she warned him.

"What? No cribbage?" he challenged her.

She sighed, "If you want, I'm sure I can find a cribbage board if you can find anyone who knows how to play."

Women had begun to arrive and settle in, finding their way to one table or another. There was the well-dressed, but always disapproving Miss Azure, the well-dressed, but pinch-faced Ms. Belfry, the well-dressed, already-drunk Ms. DeVille – all rich, all powerful women, among others.

There were several young people gathered around one of the tables, including Cora's son, Gaston, and her oldest daughter, Zelena. There was also Cora's youngest daughter, a docile brunette, and a pretty but bored blonde, Emma Nolen. They had all sat down at the table when a final guest arrived. Miss Black, ever the gracious hostess, greeted her at the door and offered her a drink.

"You must be Miss Avonlea. My son has been telling me all about you. What can I get you to drink?"

Lacey was surprised that this elegant, lovely woman was Professor Gold's mother. She didn't look old enough to have a son Professor G's age. Lacey spoke slowly, "Thank you so much for having me at your gathering. I will just have some sweet tea, please."

"We have some other young people here. Why don't you join them?" And Miss Black led her over to the table of four younger guests.

"Wow," Gaston said in awe, as he eyed the petite brunette walking with his hostess (He clearly did not recognize her from the rainy afternoon they'd spent under the canopy together.) Lacey was dressed demurely, in a full skirt and close-fitting knit top. Her long dark hair had been curled and pulled away from her face to trail down her back. Gaston stood as she came over. The group was left to their own devices by the hostess.

"Too late, too late, too many at this table," his older sister complained, shaking her head.

"I'm sure we can work something out. I'm Gaston," he introduced himself.

"I'm Belle," she told him, _giving her real name,_ and nervously sitting down, taking his seat.

"Hi, I'm Emma," said the pretty blonde smiling at her. "I'm here because my parents make me come."

"And I'm Regina," said the attractive brunette. "Same reason. My mother makes me come. How do you know Miss Black?"

"I'm friends with her son," Lacey answered, still obviously nervous.

Emma looked around the room at the man who was filling his plate from the buffet.

"The hot, older guy?" she asked.

"Uhm," Lacey wasn't sure how to answer. "The man over there."

"Yeah," Regina agreed. "The hot, older guy."

"I'm Zelena," Gaston's sister spoke up. She had glanced over and recognized Mr. Gold. "Oh, he's one of mommy's ex-lovers," she announced. "I'm here because I enjoy playing cards. We have too many to play bridge."

Lacey looked ill at ease. _She'd had a total of two lessons on Bridge playing and had learned enough to recognize that she was not ready for prime time play._ "I'm not very good at bridge. You can deal me out."

"Oh no," Gaston protested. He'd pulled another chair up to the table and sat down with them. "Perhaps there's another game you'd prefer? Spades, Hearts?"

Lacey shook her head. "Oh no, please. I only know one other card game really well . . . and, well, we could play it with five people." She looked at the group, "If you're interested, I could teach you."

The other members of the group looked at each other and shrugged. Zelena started to protest but her younger sister suggested she could play or find another table. Hesitantly, Lacey began to explain while she dealt the cards.

Gold walked over to the group so that he could overhear the conversation.

"You use your hole cards and these shared cards to make the best hand you can," Lacey was explaining. "And you can see how you don't always actually need the best hand to win if you can convince everyone else you've got a great hand and get them to fold."

"So, tell me again what beats a . . . a full house?" Regina asked.

Gold bit back a smile - as long as his mother didn't find out. He was curious however to find out if they had found anything to bet.

His mother joined him as he watched his protégé. He stepped between his mother and a good view of the table.

"She is lovely, Rum. If you hadn't told me about her background, I don't know that I would have guessed anything out of the ordinary."

"Well, there are still some rough edges," he admitted. "Heard from Father?" he asked to distract her.

"Well . . ." his mother floundered. "Would you count unopened letters, deleted emails or unanswered telephone calls as contacts?"

He considered, "Yeah, I think I might."

"Then . . . no. Not a word. Last I heard he was taking a vacation, and when I say vacation, I mean he's hunkered down in some high-priced sanitarium. I'd heard he'd had a breakdown, but I suspect drug use."

"Maybe a breakdown and drug use," Rum speculated.

His mother nodded in agreement. She gave him a wan smile and re-joined her own table of card-players. Gold kept an eye on his mother and drifted back over to Lacey's table.

Apparently, everyone had folded on this last hand, except Lacey and Gaston.

"How about if I win, we take my Ferrari and I get to drive you home," the young man offered.

"How about if I win, we take your Ferrari and I get to drive myself home in it," Lacey counter-offered.

"Oh, nobody drives that car of his but him," Zelena protested.

"It's a bet," Gaston said.

Stunned that he would be agreeable to Lacey's proposition, Zelena continued to protest, "You'd risk letter her drive it! Hell, you don't even like to let me ride in it."

"I've told you I'm not a taxi service. If I take you for a ride, I expect to be paid," Gaston impatiently told her.

Regina, Emma, and Lacey all glanced at each other.

"You sure you understand how this taxi service thing works?" Emma asked him under her breath.

Gaston ignored her and nodded to Lacey.

"It's a bet," and he revealed his cards. "A straight," he announced and reached into his pocket to pull out his keys.

Lacey smiled and revealed her hole cards. "Four of a kind, sir." And she held out her hands for the keys.

Gaston, to his credit, looked at the cards, then nodded. "I think I'm still winning. I get to ride home with you."

"I have to let Miss Black know I am leaving," Lacey told him before they stepped away. She spoke briefly with the hostess _who might have been relieved when her son's protégé had not over-stayed her welcome._

Gold decided to join the three young ladies after Gaston and Lacey had made their exit. They welcomed him and sat smiling at him.

"What are we playing, ladies?" he asked, idly shuffling the deck.

"Oh, I don't know. I think now bridge is going to be boring," Emma told him.

"Like it wasn't before?" Regina asked.

"We could continue playing . . . what did that girl call it?" Zelena suggested.

"Texas hold'em," Regina answered. "And her name was Belle."

"Oh, ladies. I don't know," Gold began. "To make the game interesting we'd have to have something to bet. Pennies would work or . . . " he hesitated.

"How about a date with you?" Zelena interrupted.

"I'm in. I'm seeing someone but it's not serious," Emma told him.

"Likewise," said Regina.

Gold sat back. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. _All young, very pretty . . . and he wasn't interested in any of them. The blonde seemed more spirited than the other two (but she hadn't grown up with Cora as her mother). Zelena repelled him with her open lasciviousness and Regina, well, he had never quite let go of the possibility that she might be his daughter._

"I'm duly flattered, but what happens if I win?" he asked.

"You could date all of us . . . at the same time," Regina offered.

He had a little difficulty swallowing. "I wouldn't survive it, ladies."

"They got drugs for that now, you know," Zelena shared and he felt her foot _he guessed it was her foot_ on his ankle. He pulled back, sitting up straight, and pushed back from the table. "Maybe another time." He smiled and gave his mother a wave before fleeing the scene.

 **Phone Follow-Up**

He was expecting The Phone Call. His mother was . . . upset.

"Your little trollop taught my friend's children how to play poker!"

"Who better?" he asked. "Mother, they all had a good time – for a change. Nobody got hurt or even lost anything."

"But honestly, Rum. Poker?!"

"Hey, those girls are hardly little innocents. After Belle and Gaston left, I got well and truly propositioned." _That ought to deflect her concerns about Lacey._

"Oh god, please tell me you are not going to go out on a date with any one of those girls? You're old enough to be their father."

"That would make you old enough to be their . . . what's the word? . . . oh yes, their grandmother," he was enjoying himself.

"Don't come around again!" she snapped at him. "You're not welcome!" and she hung up.

Well, that went well.

 ** _NEXT: Rumple and Belle struggle to deal with their growing feelings for each other. Jefferson's wedding, too much to drink and encountering someone from Lacey's past, pushes Gold into action._**


	7. No Relief

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 7**

 **No Relief**

It was early evening a couple of days after Lacey's successful debut at his mother's. He sat nursing a whiskey in his study, lounging in his leather recliner with his feet up, thinking over the past couple of days.

He had been quite pleased with Lacey's showing. She'd not given herself away despite having been a teensy bit inappropriate with her choice of card games. She'd certainly enchanted that dumbass, Gaston.

 _And she'd looked very nice – fetching – pretty – desirable._

Yeah, he'd begun to realize that he was a little - _perhaps more than a little_ \- attracted to her, and had even, perhaps, begun to accept this. He finished his drink and poured himself a second glass.

 _A little attracted to her!_

 _Hah!_

No, he was seriously attracted to her. She had started to shower with him, would drape herself over him in his bed, would wiggle her exquisite bum while sitting on his lap in this very chair.

 _Well, the fantasy Lacey would do all those things. And he would kiss her, and lick her, and put his hands all over her lush little body and she would whimper and make these soft little cries and he would push her down onto the thick carpet of this room and push himself into her tight little . . ._

He shook himself.

He needed to do something about these feelings. Squelch them, channel them into something more productive, _give into them._

Something.

Anything.

But there was no relief in sight. Even during their lessons, things would get derailed.

Just a little earlier that afternoon, he and Lacey became involved in a heated debate about the literary merits of Jane Austin – he'd thought that it was demeaning to women as it was all about them defining themselves through marriage. She'd patiently explained that she thought he was an idiot.

There had been a part of him that was enjoying the arguing – it heated his blood. There was another part of him that reminded him that he didn't need anything to heat his blood – not when it concerned this woman.

Damn, but he genuinely enjoyed her company. She was intelligent, far more intelligent than he'd ever expected her to be, and surprisingly well-read. She had a quick ear and an engaging personality, as well as a sense of humor. She was also prettier, much prettier underneath her layers of makeup and tacky clothes than he'd thought she'd be. And there was a sweet nature hidden underneath all the trashy demeanor and the tough talk.

This wasn't good.

He'd been through far too many insanely disastrous relationships and had decided to never, ever get involved with another woman. Not to mention, she was far too young for him and . . . well, she couldn't possibly ever want to be with him. He needed to get his head on straight where she was concerned.

And so, he continually felt the need to push her away, distance himself, make himself less agreeable than he might have been. He knew he was often saying things that hurt her feelings.

But, recently, his hurtful remarks seemed to be hitting wide of the mark. Lacey was getting better at standing up to him, he had realized this as she hadd stood in front of him shouting out the reasons why Jane's insight and understanding of relationships represented a break-through for the time and Elizabeth Bennet was an excellent role model for young girls, even today.

Yes, she was getting much better at standing up to him.

And that afternoon, he was finding that he really wasn't listening to her. He was appreciating her strength, her willingness to stand up for her convictions, and he had been distinctly distracted by how her pupils had dilated and her skin had flushed.

 _He couldn't stop the thought - Did she look like this when she came?_

 _Would she make little moaning sounds or would she shout out? Would she bite and scratch or would she cling to him?_

Damn! He needed a shower . . . or a drink . . . and a drink.

She was still yammering on when he just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Of course, that infuriated her even more. She finally, reduced to sputtering, had just stalked out of the room.

He was spending the rest of the afternoon with one of his dearest friends, Johnny Walker. He sat nursing his lost-count-at-four whiskeys. He knew she'd be down for supper, sulking but mostly cooled off.

Hell, what was wrong with him? He knew he should probably end this stupid experiment and send her off.

But he didn't want her to go.

 **Bad**

Lacey stood in the middle of her bedroom, trying to calm herself down.

 _Why did she let this man get to her so badly? He could push her buttons with a little wave of his hand._

Oh, sometimes she thought of packing up a few of the clothes – _she really didn't know if the clothes Mr. Madden had bought were hers to take or not, but her own clothes, what she'd brought with her, had long been discarded._

She didn't pack up, of course not. No, she was close to her dream – getting a nice little job in one of the high-toned, upper-class dress shops.

And then there was her deep-seated secret desire: the idea of being able to put away a little money so she could go to college, just a tech program at first, but then, maybe, if she did well enough, she could transfer to a real four-year program.

She hadn't told anyone about this dream – it had always seemed so far away to her. But after meeting Professor Gold and Mr. Madden, she felt that maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance for her.

So, she knew she would just suck it up and take whatever slop the man dished out. She'd tough it out. She was getting close, she knew. Not just her grammar and her language but her understanding of what was acceptable and what was low-class.

 _But he'd looked so fine this afternoon when they were arguing – his eyes had darkened and his voice had lowered in timbre, the rough sound reverberating deep within her._

 _She couldn't stop herself thinking – what would he be like as a lover – dark and sensual, possessive, masterful._

 _Or, would he be one those tough, in-charge guys who relished having the woman take over, who would like being told what to do and how to do it?_

 _She considered._

 _Professor Gold kneeling in front of her, subservient to her whims._

She shook herself.

 _No, the professor was definitely someone who would insist on being on top. She just couldn't imagine him being a closet bottom. He would be the one to order her around. He'd strip her and order her to her knees and have her wait on his pleasure and . . ._

 _Oh damn, she did have it bad._

 **Worse**

Of course, it got worse. It was a Saturday afternoon when he realized that he was missing the little minx and he went looking for her.

He found her.

\- And her friends.

They were all lying prone on lounge chairs on his rooftop patio. She was there, of course, lying on one of his plush lounging chairs and dressed - _he began sweating_ **-** in a little skimpy outfit – a swimming suit, a bikini. She was lying down stretched out in the sun. He went out to the patio and glared at her. _He barely noticed the other young women._

"Hullo," she muttered after noticing him.

Her friends lazily turned over and grunted out greetings.

"What are you doing?" he asked the obvious.

"Catching some rays with my friends. You remember Zelena and Emma and Regina and this is my best friend, Ruby. She's Granny's granddaughter," she replied. "You never use this rooftop and we were talking and I had an idea this would be a great place for us to get together to have a few drinks and sunbathe."

"But . . ." he was having trouble pulling his thoughts together. He took a deep breath. "May I see you a moment . . . inside." And he didn't wait for an answer, turning on his heel and going back inside.

"You better go after him and get that stick out of his ass," Zelena suggested.

"And bring us back another pitcher of those Margaritas," Ruby called out to her. "My buzz is wearing off."

"Got it," Belle told her and slipped off the lounger to go and see her professor. She caught up with him in the darkness of his dining room.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked without preamble.

"I thought I explained. I invited some of my new friends up here to sunbathe. You've got the perfect spot."

"But . . ." he was flustered.

"Aren't these the kind of people you want me to hang around with?" she asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

"I . . . I . . ." he wasn't able to get his thoughts together.

She leaned in. "You know they all think you're banging me . . . or I'm banging you . . . well, there's some mutual banging going on." She smiled at him. "I keep telling 'em that we're just friends, but I don't think they're buyin' it."

"We . . . well, if. . . if you invited them here, they have, they have no doubt realized that you're living here," he managed to sputter out.

"Uh huh, I keep tellin' them that we're just real good friends." She repeated and set about fixing a second picture of Margaritas, adding in some simple syrup, the lime juice, and the tequila, using the purist recipe for the potent drink.

He poured himself some whiskey and then looked her over sternly. "This outfit – how you're dressed . . . I mean . . . this outfit . . . it's . . . I mean . . . I can see . . ."

"They're called boobs, Professor G. Breasts if you want to be all formal." And she brazenly caressed herself, lifting up each perfect little half-globe. "This is a Wonderbra top – gives me C cups, you know."

"Yeah . . . uh . . . what?" he stammered. "But I . . . I . . . can see . . . them."

Lacey sighed. "Yeah, I tried to get one of those burka bikinis but they was all sold out."

"But people can see you!"

"Yeah, if they stand on the wall of the parking garage and lean waaay out and over the street," she said and then relented. "Now, listen, this is a perfectly respectable bathing suit. Mr. Madden helped me pick it out and I think I look good in it, gosh darn good." She sighed again. "But if I'm making you that uncomfortable, I could go in and change." She looked up at him, her large blue eyes luminous.

He closed his eyes. "No . . . no . . . no, do whatever you want to do. Be with your friends." He shook his head, giving up this fight and taking a drink.

"Well, good. Your momma thought it would be good if I hung out with the Mills girls and Miss Emma."

He spewed his drink dissolving into a coughing fit.

"What?!" he struggled to regain control of his breathing. "You've had contact with my mother?"

"Well, yeah. Jefferson taught me I need to be all mannerly, so I called her after the card soiree thingy and thanked her for having me over. And I apologized for the whole poker game screw-up. She was all nice about it and since then, she calls me a couple of times a week. We've had lunch twice."

"You are talking. with. my. mother?" he felt like he was repeating himself.

"Yeah. She's been so sweet."

"No," he corrected her. "She's not sweet."

"She sure is. She's been teaching me how to swear in Southern Lady Speak. I don't say 'go fuck yourself.' Instead, I say, 'bless your heart.'"

"Lacey, listen to me. My mother's evil. She's malicious and manipulative and cannot be trusted."

"Maybe, but she loves you and calls me to check on how you're doing."

He shook his head in disbelief. "No. No. Listen. She's using you to spy on me. She's put a spell on you, Lacey. If you don't watch it, she'll swallow you whole and . . . and . . . I wouldn't like that," he finished lamely. "I . . . I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Well, thanks. I'll remember that," she told him. "Oh, you might want to be extra nice to Emma Swan. She's regularly dating this fellow, Neal Cassidy. Sounds kinda serious." She smiled at him before going back out to her friends.

Gold watched her go, open-mouthed.

Lacey rejoined her friends, thinking about the conversation. _She knew he thought she was pretty. But was he attracted to her?_ She had never considered this. She had thought the feelings were all on her side, like a school girl in love with her teacher, but now . . . _was it possible that he liked her? Really liked her?_

So now what? She knew her feelings had deepened for this impossible man, but she had been realistic enough to entertain no fantasies that he had any feelings for her. But now . . . _maybe he did._

Now what?

 **Wedding Preparations**

"You will come, of course. I convinced Viktor that you're just a mite of thing and won't take up much space at all. I'm sure he'd enjoy meeting you. He's already convinced you're a real estate genius, finding us that perfect little house." It was Mr. Madden convincing Lacey to come to his much-anticipated wedding.

Professor Gold was to be the best man and had spent considerable time grousing about the truly heinous tuxedo his friend wanted him to wear during the ceremony. He was standing in the store with Jefferson and Lacey as he got his final fitting.

"Honest to god, Jefferson. I can't wear purple."

"It's not purple, you color-blind neckbearded breeder, you. It's a rich claret burgundy, very dark and with that black silk shirt under it, you look delicious. These were all special order. They're fashion forward. You will look fabulous, I promise you."

Gold scoffed. "If you weren't my best friend . . ."

"Quit whining. You look wonderful. If you don't believe me, ask Miss French. Get a woman's opinion," Jefferson encouraged him.

Lacey was struggling to take her eyes off the man. The tuxedo had been tailored to his trim form. The color was dark enough to look masculine rather than flamboyant - and with the black shirt . . . he took her breath away. It took her a moment to realize that the men were waiting for her to comment.

"Uh . . . uh, you look . . . uh . . . nice," she managed to say neutrally. "Really nice."

 _He might have flushed. He had realized that he was being scrutinized by exquisite Lacey and she seemed to like what she was looking at._

"See. Now relax," Jefferson directed him. "And be thankful that Viktor talked me out of going with an all-leather wedding theme. You would have looked so cute in sprayed-on leather pants."

Gold shook his head, "I don't think so . . . because I wouldn't have been wearing them."

"Really? Now Miss French, don't you think he would look just scrumptious in leather pants?" Jefferson asked Lacey.

She was having trouble swallowing – the image of Gold in tight leather pants, pants that molded to the contours of his muscles, that outlined . . . _oh, my_. "He'd look . . . fine," she finally managed to get out.

"What will you be having Lacey wearing?" Gold asked - anything to get the attention off of himself.

"Oh, it's an afternoon wedding," Jefferson explained but didn't say anything more.

"So?"

Jefferson rolled his eyes. "Well, of course, she'll be wearing black. I've got the cutest little Prada dress picked out. Square neck with a waistline and full skirt. It will be just darling."

"Prada? Isn't that expensive?" Gold asked.

"I'm only planning on getting married once. I've asked Miss French to be an honorary bride's maid of sorts, so it's important she looks stunning. She'll be in the reception line. I need someone as pretty as she is to balance out some of the truly fugly people that Viktor is having in the wedding party," Jefferson explained. He added in a hushed tone, "I swear, I don't know where Viktor dug up some of these people he's so keen to have in the wedding party – but it's for one day and I can put up with anything for one day."

"I won't be walking down the aisle," Lacey assured Gold. "I just have to stand around and have my picture taken."

"And you'll sit at the main table at the reception, remember that, darling. I've sat her next to you," Jefferson explained to Rumple.

Gold sighed. "Another fresh hell."

 **The Wedding**

The wedding was a four-star catered affair. Rumple held up his end, standing by Jefferson, handing him off the ring, and, in general, being the supportive best friend. He, more or less, liked Viktor, who was silent while Jefferson was talkative and rational, Viktor who was careful and considerate, while Jefferson was impulsive. They were a marriage of opposites, but both were good for the other.

And fortunately for Rumple, there was an open bar at the reception. He'd been surprised at the number of people who attended, some of them well-known outside of Asheville and so many of Asheville's upper-crust society, as well as artists and writers, not to mention hospital workers, physicians, nurses, therapists, custodians. _Good lord, his mother was one of the invitees._

This was apparently The Wedding of the Season and, giving it a rough count, Rumple figured there had to be more than five hundred in attendance.

He'd stood by Jefferson, glad his friend was doing so well, financially, romantically, and, well, with life in general.

His mother drifted by at some point.

"You're drunk," she told him.

"I am," he agreed.

"How's it going with that little masseuse?" she asked.

"Fine. She's coming along fine," he muttered.

"Are you two sleeping with each other yet?" she wanted to know.

"I don't really think that is any of your business," he managed to get out.

"Soooo . . . no," his mother decided. "Perhaps, you should. She's obviously got under your skin. You keep leering at her and she looks at you like you're the last piece of fried chicken on the platter at Sunday dinner."

"I doubt she thinks of me . . . in that manner," he told his mother.

His mother looked at him and sighed. "You can be so stupid, sometimes. If I'm not mistaken, and, of course, I'm not, she's _very_ interested in you. I suggest you initiate something or you're both going to combust."

"Whaaa? She's not interested in me."

"As I said, you can be sooo stupid," his mother just shook her head and moved on.

He remained on the sidelines watching the people. All these happy couples, reminding him of how empty his own life was. It didn't get better when Lacey-Belle came and sat next to him.

He had, somehow, started thinking of her as Lacey-Belle - as some sort of transformative creature that was shifting between crude and common Lacey into someone else – this lady Belle.

 _Oh, Jesus, she looked good enough to eat._ She was smiling and laughing and . . . and, he ached looking at her. He did want her. And he wanted her to want him.

What if his mother was right and Lacey-Belle was . . . no, it wasn't possible. No, he'd just continue to drink straight shots of whiskey, sitting next to Lacey-Belle.

 _Damn, but she was beautiful._ Quite drunk at this point, he watched her as she spoke, graciously, with many of Jefferson's friends. Bored and far beyond political correctness, he'd begun to classify the cross-section of society who were attending his best friend's wedding: "Faghag," "Diesel dyke," "Bukkake," "Slut," "Felcher," "Fudgepacker," and, occasionally "Breeder," like himself. Between them, Jefferson and Viktor knew the creative underbelly of the city, along with individuals who represented every sexual variation conceivable.

Lacey-Belle seemed comfortable around all of them. He couldn't help but notice that there were any number of straight men vying for her attention. When he'd refused to dance with her _not trusting himself,_ she'd danced with them instead. And now, they were bringing her things from the buffet bar, getting her drink refilled, telling her funny stories. He resented every one of them and was angry at her for encouraging their attentions. Yeah, he knew she would have told him that she was just being nice.

She _was_ nice and did seem comfortable in this strange, eclectic setting. _Not like himself._ It wasn't the gender variations that bothered him. The truth was that he wasn't comfortable around anyone. He'd blame his mother, but he knew, at heart, it was his own selfish, arrogant ways that drove people away _and there was that undercurrent of unworthiness_. He'd learned early and often that the only person who would look out for you was . . . well . . . you, yourself. No one could be trusted. Everyone would eventually betray you, abandon you.

He looked at Lacey-Belle again.

 _She was gorgeous._

 _And nice._

It was after midnight, but she had managed to remain sober, apparently having designated herself as The Driver. Sullen and only just managing to stifle his angry mood, he handed the car keys over to her to take them home. She pulled into the garage and they walked out to cross the street to return to his apartment. He was in a sour mood and the alcohol certainly wasn't helping him feel more perky.

"Hey, I know you."

They both heard the voice and turned. It was a big guy. Lacey immediately recognized the man as Keith Nottingham, her former employer.

"You're that little tart, Lacey. You bailed on me a couple of months ago leaving me high and dry." The man glanced over at Gold. "Looks like you found yourself an exclusive. Didn't know you liked the older dudes, Lacey. I would've hooked you up."

"Sir," Gold addressed the man. "I believe you have made a serious mistake. I'm sure you're not acquainted with this lady."

"Lady? Hell, man, she ain't no lady. Nah, she was one of my best girls. I earned a grand a night from this one. You know her specialty, don't you? She could . . . " The man didn't get a chance to finish. Gold had taken him out with his cane, first cutting him off at the knees, then, when Keith went down, Gold delivered a crippling blow to the back of the head. Once down, Gold raised his cane for a third blow, and then a fourth, only stopping when . . .

"No!" It was Lacey. "He's down. Let him go." Gold froze with the cane still poised above his head, ready to go down on back and shoulders of the unfortunate Keith.

"Sure," Gold agreed. "Sure." But he couldn't allow one last shot, "I'm a cripple and I'm drunk. I've probably got fifteen years on you, and I disabled your sorry arse in less than thirty seconds. Come into this neighborhood again, bother this lady again, and I will, sober and without anesthetic, geld you, preferably using a dull spoon."

And then, he allowed Lacey to lead him back into the elevator and then up to his apartment.

Neither one of them moved to turn on the lights and the apartment was lit only with light reflected through the windows and from the plethora of electronic devices they had scattered throughout the house.

"I wasn't really one of his girls . . ." Lacey began.

But Gold had spun her around and abruptly shoved her up against the door, pinning her between his own body and the back of the door. Without asking, without preliminaries, he dropped his mouth on hers, kissing her, hard and possessively.

 **A.N. This relationship is not on a pathway paved with Teflon – things don't go smoothly for them. -twyla**


	8. Risk

**My Fair Lacey**

 _ **A.N. This chapter is mostly smut and pain**_

 **Chapter 8**

 **Risk**

He was kissing her. _Oh my god, he was kissing her._

Wow! Was he ever kissing her!

She'd closed her eyes and just enjoyed the incredible sensations he was eliciting _he was really good at this_ – most of the feelings were pooling just below her stomach. She was heating up and had raised one leg to wrap around his.

His hands had pinioned her wrists to the door so that he could hold her still while he forced her to open her lips to his. She tried to protest, little sounds escaping from her mouth – _a teeny, tiny voice deep in her brain was screaming out that this wasn't a good idea._ He slowly slipped his hands along her arms and now one of them was caressing her breast and the other was slipping down her hip to pull up on the full skirt of her dress. Her own hands were clinging to his shoulders and she was trying to stay upright on the one foot she had on the ground, a difficult task since her leg seemed to have turned to water.

He slanted his head and gently his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her. And now, one of his hands was on her naked thigh, above her black stockings that were held up by a lace garter belt.

"Damn," she heard him murmur as his fingers stroked the smooth skin of her leg. "You are so beautiful."

For a man as drunk as she knew him to be, he was surprisingly strong, _and still excruciatingly cognizant of female anatomy_. Lacey was still making little sounds of protest, but they were increasingly half-hearted. She was fighting her own desires, her own burgeoning desires. A big part of her wanted this. _Soooo wanted this and everything this man could offer._

 _This entire evening, the man had seemed possessed by darkness. He'd been unpleasant, refusing to dance with her, but then clearly resenting it when she had danced with others. She had tried to get food into him, but he'd brusquely told her he wasn't hungry. He was non-communicative, preferring to spend more time with his liquor than engaging with her._

 _But now, and now, the darkness that had consumed him was swallowing her too._

 _Seeing him take down Keith with such ease, watching him beat this big, powerful man whom she had seen bully and beat some of the other girls, who had bullied and beaten her – it had thrilled her – on some unfathomable dark level, she had found his raw power and ruthless actions exciting - arousing. It was like he was taking some small vengeance for all the mean things Keith had done to her and to all the other girls. It was like Professor Gold was telling her that he could take care of her, protect her like no other man had ever done for her._

 _And he could . . . and he would . . . introduce her to passion, to swirling dark carnal desires and sweet, cresting satisfaction._

His grip on her was tight, his body hard against her. She could feel his determination.

"Please," she managed to cry out (her rational brain making one last effort). "I . . . I don't think this is a good idea!" _A drunken coupling up against the wall of his apartment was not the direction she'd wanted their relationship to go. She'd envisioned a big bed with satin sheets and rose petals and . . . and maybe tenderness._

"I do, I do," He pulled back a moment so that he could look her in her eyes. "I've been wanting to do this for too long. And I think . . . I think you know this. I think you want it too."

And he began kissing her again, softer this time, not so bruising. His hand was inching its way to between her legs. He reached his goal and she gasped as his fingers brushed against her core. He pulled back a moment when he felt the dampness there.

"Come on, Lacey. You've been with other men – a lot of other men, I hear tell. Let me, let me have you, let me have you, too," he murmured, his mouth slipping off of hers to talk, to press against her cheek, her ear, her neck eliciting shivers and soft whimpers from her, seeking her permission.

He was good at this, his lips brushing against her skin, hot and wet and then seeking her mouth again, taking sweet possession, his lips soft on hers, seeking, wanting . . . desiring.

 _Lacey was confused and dizzy. The man had gotten to her, had overwhelmed her, and she so wanted to yield to him, to give herself over to him. He was pressed against her, and she could tell, she could feel that he was hard for her, so ready for her._

"I'll pay you."

. . .

Cold water doused her.

She wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"What?!"

"Sure," he was nuzzling her neck, kissing a particularly sensitive spot that made her tremble. "A couple of hundred for a good, hard fuck? Hell, how about a thousand? From what Keith said, you're worth that."

It took a lot of strength for her to push him away.

"A thousand? Isn't that what you paid my father for me?" She couldn't believe he was offering her money. He was offering her money like she was some . . . some . . . .

"What? You want more?" he lurched, just managing to stay upright. "Sure. I'm good for it. Diamond earrings? Fur coat? A Birkin bag? You name it."

No!" she gasped. "No. I . . . no. I don't want money or . . . or things! I don't want to be paid! I've never been paid for sex!"

He stopped. _In the fuzzy haven that was still his thinking brain, a slow thought formed - he might have just crossed a line here._

They stood apart, panting.

"Is it me? You don't want me," he managed to whisper.

"I do want you, but I can't be with you if you think I'm like some . . . some . . . whore," she sobbed and gulped in a great breath of air. "I'm in love with you, you stupid man!" she told him, tearfully, her voice cracking. "And I want you to be in love with me . . . and I know, I know now that it can never happen. You'll always think of me as nothing more than a common whore."

She tore away. weeping and running upstairs to her bedroom.

Lacey was devastated, collapsing on her bed, sobbing. She had finally put a name to her feelings – love. She had realized when he took her in his arms that this was where she wanted to be . . . but not as some cheap floozy. She wanted him . . . she wanted him to love her.

When had she fallen in love with him? From the very beginning, perhaps. She had fought against it. Had tried to distract herself, distance herself, defend against the ever-increasing emotions that now overwhelmed her.

She unfastened her dress, hanging the beautiful garment upon a cushioned hanger. She looked at herself in the mirror. This underwear, a merry widow corset, had cost three figures and it caressed her, tucked her in and uplifted her in all the right areas. She remembered blushing when Mr. Madden had selected it, insisting that the right foundation garments were essential for a proper fit. She remembered she had wondered what Professor Gold might think if he ever saw her wearing it.

How was she ever going to face the man again? She's had blurted out her feelings and fled, too cowardly to wait to hear what feelings he might have for her.

 _Right - like he had any feelings other than passing lust for her._

She started packing some clothes. She'd made up her mind. She was not going to face him in the morning. She was going to slink out tonight, maybe, maybe leave a note. Clear out while she could still retain some level of dignity.

She stopped packing. She couldn't help but remember how the man's kisses had made her feel, how his touch had aroused her, how much she had wanted him _like she had never wanted anyone else_.

She debated. She'd confessed her feelings and - if she was going to leave – before she stepped out, why not go all the way, take a risk? Do the brave thing, she told herself.

He was the right man for her. He would take care of her. She'd never met anyone else that she had wanted – _that way_.

She slipped off the pricey underwear while a simple plan began to formulate.

Gold had stood a moment in the hallway, bracing himself against the wall.

 _She loved him!_

 _He exulted in the feelings, reveling in it._

 _She loved him!_

 _She wanted him like she had wanted no other man._

 _But my god, why would she ever feel this way? He'd treated her dismally, and tonight, he'd approached her as if he'd paid for her. Hell, he'd offered to pay for her._

 _He'd fucked everything up again._

 _Yet, she loved him._

 _Damn, his mother had been right. Lacey was right._

 _He was stupid, so stupid._

Somewhat sobered up, he made his way to his bedroom.

He dropped the rental tux on the floor and took a quick shower, not really washing, just standing under the cold spray to calm his body down. He put on a clean pair of boxers and collapsed on to his bed.

 _Fuck it all. Things were a mess. She had just confessed to feelings for him . . . but now . . . even if he came forth with his own feelings, she'd never believe him – she'd just think he was trying to get into her pants._

The apartment had become quiet and still.

It was very dark. and now, probably in the small hours of the morning. Gold was surprised to wake up to a soft body pressed against his.

 _She was kissing him._

 _Oh, this had to be a dream._

It took him a moment to come to enough to realize what was happening.

 _It was no dream. It was really happening._

 _She was in bed with him._

He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and he realized something else.

 _She was naked, her skin smooth and soft and yielding._

It only took him a moment. He recovered, coming to. He rolled her over so that she lay beneath him, pressed between his own body and the mattress, her lush body accepting his own hard angles.

 _Yes, he knew this was a mess, not the best idea._

But, he couldn't refuse this offer.

He traced over her body with his fingers, relishing all that she was offering him. He lingered over one of her soft breasts, gently grasping, squeezing, rewarded with a nipple hardening under his palm. He heard her whimper, a soft moan.

He had to take a moment to explore her body, to run his hands all over her, her shoulders, her sweet breasts, her hips. He dipped his hands below her waist, down, between her legs. She was hot and wet, oh yes, she was ready, ready, more than ready for him, already hot and slick. He slipped a finger inside and felt her body clench. She was tight, really tight, and he nearly disgraced himself, imagining those tight walls clenching his cock. His body had instantly responded to her primal invitation and he was already up for her, fully engorged and painfully hard.

This would be quick. He was too far gone for niceties, for finesse. _Time enough later to lick her all over and tease her clit with his tongue and fingers until she screamed his name._

He pulled down his pants and centered himself over her wet heat and he pushed, surging into her.

And he stopped.

He caught her by the chin so that she would have to look at him, but she kept her eyes closed and turned her head away to the side.

There had been a barrier. He'd felt it. He'd never been with a virgin before, but the sense of something obstructing his path had been unmistakable. _No wonder the fit was so snug, so tight._

"Lacey," he said, then, "Belle." And he kissed her. He kissed her softly, gently, tasting tears, her tears.

She was giving herself to him. He was her first, selected from all other men, special to her.

Why she had chosen him, he had no idea, _perhaps because she loved him?_ but he knew he wanted this to be special for her. He knew he wanted any other man who might come after him to pale in comparison to what he would give her this night. He knew he wanted to be the best she'd ever have.

Her arms were wrapped around him and he could feel her hands, her fingers, even her fingernails on his shoulders. She was holding onto him. He could feel her pressing soft kisses onto him, his neck, his chin.

He began to thrust, riding her hard, determined to give her satisfaction, to prove himself worthy of her grace. He pushed, harder and harder and harder making sure he was hitting her on that most sensitive part, delighting in her soft cries, her gasps, her surrendering as he pulled her along, giving her more and more of himself, pushing, pushing, harder, harder, faster, faster.

She screamed. Her head went back and now he felt her nails dig into him, scratching, perhaps drawing blood. He could feel her body shaking and contracting, caressing his full cock, and he could not hold back. Groaning, he let himself go in long, hard streams, releasing himself, giving himself to her.

Somehow, he managed to support himself, not collapsing onto her. He was panting and tired, and inordinately proud of himself. He managed a quick kiss.

"I'm in love with you too," he was just able to get the words out before shifting off of her and falling asleep.

Lacey lay in his arms. He had roughly pulled her to him and wrapped himself, arms and legs, around her as if she was something precious that he didn't want to let go.

 _And he loved her. He had said it._

 _Even if it wasn't true, he'd said it._

And he had been everything she had ever wanted, ever imagined.

She sniffed. She had known, all too well, she had known that she shouldn't pursue this, that she should stay away from him, that she should damn well leave.

But she couldn't stay away. He had awakened her body and all of her desires. She could have this one night with him if nothing else. And so, against all reason, all sense, she had come to him. And he had taken her.

It had hurt, not as bad as she'd thought it might, but more than she'd liked. But then, he hadn't been gentle – he'd been frantic and ruthless, pummeling her, taking her hard and thoroughly. She knew she would re-live in her dreams and late-night fantasies the completeness of her own response.

 _So much better than when she'd brought her own self to climax. Intense and so satisfying, much more than she might have ever imagined._

When she was sure he was asleep, his breathing soft and even, his body relaxed, she slipped out from his arms and left his bed.

 **Aftermath**

When he woke, he stretched.

Jesus fucking Christ! That had been a splendid night. He might have thought he'd imagined it all, a sex dream, except for . . .

Well hell, no, she wasn't there. He remembered he'd fallen asleep with his arms full of luscious little Lacey, his nostrils filled with her sweet cookie scent, tempered by the tangy scent of sex. He'd had a half-dozen different positions come to mind that he'd immediately wanted to have the woman assume and he had a half-formed plan to try out at least one of them this morning.

But she was gone.

He pulled the sheets back.

His breath caught in his throat. There it was, a slight, small stain on his sheets.

 _She had bled for him._

So, he hadn't imagined the barrier. He got up and went to look for her, tapping on the door to her bedroom.

It was empty.

 _Where the hell was she?_

"Lacey? Belle!" he called out, thinking that perhaps she had already gone down for breakfast – or, at least, for her coffee.

There was no answer.

He wanted to tell her how he felt, how much he cared about her, how much he was sorry for being . . . well, for being him. He wanted to start anew with her – and begin to try any one of those half-dozen positions.

"Lacey!" he raised his voice.

He searched the ground floor and there was no sign of her. He went back up to her room. A brief search confirmed that her wallet and phone were gone.

He called, not expecting an answer and he was not disappointed.

 _Where the hell could she have gone?_

He considered. Not back to the hotel, to that loathsome Keith. She was beyond that now.

Jefferson? No, he was out of the country on his honeymoon.

Gaston? That seemed unlikely. She had only a passing acquaintance with the wimp. Hell, Gaston probably still lived with his mother.

What was her friend's name? Ruby? No, she wouldn't go there – there was the whole landlord thing and she'd be concerned that he might be petty enough to take vengeance on her friend for harboring her.

He didn't think she was close enough with any of the other girls, what were their names? Zelena, Regina – that would have involved her with Cora and he couldn't imagine her going that route. And there was the other girl, ah yes, like he would ever forget her, Emma Nolen. The exquisite young woman who was dating his son. No, he didn't think she was close enough with any of them to call them at three or four in the morning to ask to be taken in.

He sat down and considered. She would have needed to go to someone who would have been willing to take her in in the wee hours. She would have wanted to call someone who knew him and recognized what a total arse he could be. Someone who would be willing to believe the worst about him. Someone who already believed the worst about him.

That cinched it.

He called his mother.

When she didn't answer her phone, he'd dressed and gone over to see her, pounding on the door of her upscale apartment.

Lumiere, his mother's butler answered.

"I don't believe she's in, sir," Lumiere told him, looking down his nose at him.

He sighed. "God damn it, she's in, Pierre. Let her know I'm prepared to wait in her living room until she comes out to see me." He raised his voice, "I'll start breaking things if she doesn't get out here soon."

He waited, looking around. There were no overt signs that his Lacey was here but . . . there was still _something . . ._ maybe her sweet personal scent. It was primal, his recognition of his mate's scent, but yes, there was something distinctly _Lacey_ in the atmosphere.

"She doesn't want to see you," his mother greeted him. "I can't blame her." She had walked in, dressed in one of her elegant black silk kimonos, the light fabric gracing her still youthful figure in the most flattering manner.

 _He wouldn't have been surprised to find his mother was keeping a young paramour – she was still a beautiful woman, obviously sensual and not one to deny her desires. He could certainly understand what his father had seen in her – Rumple suspected that in her day, his mother would have easily been a ten. Hell, she was a nine nowadays._

"Mother, Lacey and I . . . uh . . . had a little . . . misunderstanding. She left without a word. I wanted to . . . check on her."

"Well," his mother examined her nails. "If I see her, I'll pass that on to her."

"I would like for her to come back to me. Mother, I . . . I am in love with her," he was beginning to get desperate.

"Oh, that's nice. Like you were 'in love' with Milah and Cora and . . . oh, who else has there been?"

"It's different with Lacey," he tried to explain. "I'm really . . . oh fuck it all, but it's different."

"Really?" his mother didn't seem impressed.

"She's like this . . . light . . ." he broke. He wasn't ready to share his deepest feelings with his mother. "Oh hell, just let her know I came by and wanted to tell her that I was sorry." He started for the door.

"Rumple."

He stopped and turned slowly. It was his Lacey, his lovely fair Lacey. _How much had she heard?_

She was dressed simply in skinny black jeans and a loose, pale silk top. She looked every bit the casual, yet elegant, lady. He felt a smug sense of power when she flushed under his gaze.

 _Oh god, he really should fall at her feet and confess he was an absolute wanker and beg her forgiveness and ask her to return, if not to his bed, then at least to his home. He should, he should, but he knew, coward that he was, he wouldn't ask her to return. It was too much a risk._

 _She might say no._

 _No, instead he would trade in the currency he knew best, manipulation, playing on guilt and sympathy._

"Lacey," he started toward her, but she shook her head and held up her hand to ward him off. He stopped.

"I need a break from you. It hurts too much to . . . I need a break," she told him, looking at him, but then looking away.

He waited quietly, waited for her to finish, to complete. "I see," he finally said.

"I'm so glad you understand . . ." she began.

"I don't understand," he interrupted. "You know how much time . . . and money . . . Jefferson and I have put into you, into giving you this opportunity and . . . now, and now you are just going to . . . what? take a break? You're freakin' goin' to walk out on us?"

"The Governor's Ball," she said, realization dawning.

"What the fuck else? The very thing that we've been working on for several months and you're just going to blow it off because . . . because . . . what? you decided to take advantage of me while I was decidedly drunk and we shared . . . what? a bit of a good time? Like we both haven't had better?"

Lacey didn't say anything.

He shrugged and started to leave. "I could call this in as The Favor you owe me from all the pool games you've lost, but I'd prefer to think that you had enough personal integrity to honor your agreement. Just let me know." He turned away from her and took a step for the door.

And another.

And one more.

"Wait."

He suppressed his smile. "Yes?" he said neutrally and glanced over his shoulder.

"I'll . . . I'll honor my agreement. I'm willing to continue with our experiment and go to the Governor's Ball."

He turned around and approached her, looking her up and down. _She looked fantastic, as beautiful as she had ever been, as strong and smart as she'd ever been, every inch the gracious lady._

"Of course," he said casually. "But you know we still have a lot of work to do. And it's work I find tedious, like the dancing and which fork and small talk – stuff that Jefferson was doing with you."

"You'll have to put yourself out, I suppose," she said quietly.

He sighed. "I guess. Now get your things and come on back home."

And this time he did leave, stalking toward the door, not waiting for her to catch up.

 **A.N. I despair for Rumple sometimes – he is, as he has said, a man who makes poor decisions. When caught unawares, he tends to go for the expedient response, what is best for the moment, but not the one that is better in the long run. And so it goes, and so it goes. - twyla**


	9. Accomplishments

My Fair Lacey

Chapter 9

 **Accomplishments**

It was . . . awkward.

Lacey had returned to her bedroom and Professor Gold to his. Every morning they would have breakfast together, but there was no more banter, no more casual talk between them. Lacey continued to prepare his coffee and set out his paper, but they only exchanged the most politest of phrases.

 _It was like he had never offered her money for the use of her body._

 _It was like their interlude of passion had never occurred._

"Do you have plans this morning?" He often asked this. He usually allowed her mornings for herself – previously she would have spent this time with Jefferson but the man was off, where was it? - in Tahiti, with his new husband.

She shared that she was going out shopping with Emma Nolan.

"Emma?" He was interested. Other than the occasional sunbathing on his roof he had not been able to manage to cross paths with the lovely Miss Nolan. And he very much wanted to - the young woman was dating his son. He wanted to get to know her, make sure she was . . . a nice girl, maybe use her as a way to re-connect with his son, oh hell, especially use her as a way to re-connect with his son.

"You'd be welcome to tag along, but it is shoe shopping," she warned him.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his nose bridge, then he had an idea. "Why don't I treat you ladies for lunch? We could meet at a restaurant of your choice."

"That would be lovely. Say Curate at 1:30?"

"I'll get reservations," he promised.

 **Lunch #1**

And it was nice. His first impression was that Emma was drop dead gorgeous. The second impression was that she was a bit of tomboy. And then, he realized that she was also smart and surprisingly sensitive.

"I believe I'm dating your son." She got right to the point.

"Yes, I've been told so. How is Neal?"

"Great. He tells me you two aren't particularly close."

 _Oh yes, she was one to get right to the point._ "Not because that's what I ever wanted. Things happened between Neal's mother and myself and he . . . he was collateral damage. I never wanted him out of my life, but that's how it worked out." He'd decided that honesty would be the best choice with Miss Emma Nolan.

Emma had reached across the table and taken his hand. He'd nearly choked up. _Surprisingly sensitive, indeed._

"I'd like Neal to get to know his father and for him to decide what he wants your relationship to be. Maybe you and I . . . and Neal can have lunch another day," she offered.

He was blown away. "Neal . . . and you . . . I'd love to have lunch with you." He remembered his other companion. "And Lacey, I'd want Lacey to come too."

"Like a double date," Emma said guilelessly. "Maybe next week?"

"As soon as you can arrange it," he told her.

 **Lunch #2**

Another day, the same question. "Do you have any special plans this morning?"

"Yes, this morning I'm meeting your mother."

He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Shoe shopping?"

"No, I'm going gun shopping with her. She says she knows a nice place I can pick up a handgun and they have classes, so I can learn to shoot straight."

"You're thinking of getting a gun?" _Should he be alarmed?_

"Your mother suggested it. Single woman living in the city. Made sense to me."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his neck.

She waited. "You aren't going to suggest meeting us for lunch?"

"You did say that you were going out with my mother?"

"I did."

"Then . . . no."

Lacey looked at him, long and hard. "Just what is the problem with you two?" she asked. "I mean, she's not the warmest, fuzziest person I've ever met, but she's smart and clever and knows everyone."

He stared at his coffee. "My father seduced my mother when she was still a teenager. She got pregnant and they decided to get married. The marriage didn't last. Neither one of them wanted to deal with their young son. I got shuttled back and forth between them, eventually landing with a couple of maiden aunts, who were far better parents than either my mother or father."

"So, your mother was too young to really be a mother."

He snorted, "If the woman had been fifty-five when she'd had me, she would still have been too young. She's just not maternal."

"Well, some women aren't. You know, she's very proud of you."

"She never tells me that."

"She's afraid you'll be an ass about it."

He looked at Lacey. "You really think that?"

"You and your mother are a lot alike. You're both brilliant and you both have this caustic wit and neither one of you trusts people."

"Well, you can't trust people," he told her.

"Oh, you do sound so much like your mother. You don't have to trust her, but you should spend a little time with her now and then. She's the only mother you'll ever have." Lacey paused, then softly she said, "I can tell you, I would give anything for just one more lunch date with my mother."

"That's a low blow, Lacey," he countered.

She gave him a brilliant smile, "So, you will make reservations? One thirty would be fine. Your choice of restaurants this time.

He pushed around the remaining food on his plate. "All right," he reluctantly capitulated.

 _He'd thought having breakfast with Lacey was awkward. But lunch with his mother would be like having his nails pulled off by a set of red hot pliers._

"Hello, Mother," he'd greeted her. He'd plopped down across from her in the posh little restaurant.

As always, she looked fantastic. No sign of gray in her hair, no wrinkles on her face, ever part of her body toned and tempered.

"I halfway thought you'd bail," she told him, sipping on some white wine.

"I thought about it," he told her signaling the waitress and ordering a whiskey.

"So did I," she admitted.

They sat quietly not looking at each other.

Lacey was watching them both. She was drinking a cola. She finally spoke up, addressing Fiona Black. "I understand, you'll be going to the Governor's Ball?"

"Of course. It's _de rigueur_ , required for me. Everyone expects me to come and, well, I usually enjoy myself, even though I've never been invited to sit at the Governor's Table with all the visiting dignitaries and old money people. Oh, that reminds me, Jefferson asked me to get tickets for you three. I'll have them ready in time."

"Why thank you, Fiona," Lacey told her. "That's very kind of you." They all heard Lacey's phone. She checked it and made a sad face. "Ohhh, I'm sooo sorry. Ruby needs to connect with me right away. Gotta go. It doesn't look like I'll be able to stay for lunch."She smiled brightly and excused herself. Gold was left alone with his mother.

"I think we've been set up," Fiona told him.

"Yeah, me too," he replied as he watched Lacey skitter out of the restaurant.

"Do you think this is some attempt by your Miss French to help us repair our relationship?" Fiona asked him.

"Absolutely. She likes for everything to be just . . . lovely," he shared.

"I like her, Rum. She's smart, really smart and genuinely nice. I think she's good for you, too. Not at all typical of the self-involved, pretentious people I have to deal with on a daily basis," his mother told him.

"I like her too," he said slowly. "In fact, as I told you, I'm in love with her."

"What the hell did you do to her the other night?" his mother asked him. "When she came to my door at three in the morning, she was devastated."

He dropped his eyes, "I offered her money for sex," he admitted slowly. "Ouch," he reacted to a sharp pain on his shin. He realized his mother had kicked him with her pointy-toed Manolo Blahniks. "You just kicked my shin!" he complained.

"You're lucky I can't reach any higher than your shin," she told him, her brown eyes flashing. "I can't believe . . . oh, hell, I guess I can."

"In my defense, I was really drunk," he tried to excuse himself.

"I don't care if you were high, wired, or stoned – there is no excuse for what you did. You have given her a groveling apology?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh Jesus! Do you mean to tell me that you haven't apologized?" she was appalled.

"Well . . ." he began.

"You haven't apologized," she repeated and shook her head. "I can't believe she went back to you."

"I know I . . ."

"No!" his mother told him. "You don't know anything! You are skating on thin ice, Rum. Listen to me. This woman is giving you a second chance. Why - I can't imagine. But I'm here to tell you, that if you don't pull your head out of your ass and properly woo her, she is going to be gone after the Governor's Ball – like shit through a goose and you won't ever see her again."

"But if I tell her how I really feel about her? If I apologize? If I do all that, she might still be gone," he said miserably.

"So, your choices here are: one – she's gone for sure, or two – you grovel, apologize, and profess your feelings and, maybe, just maybe, she might stick around."

"So, what should I do?" he asked plaintively.

His mother closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

 **Lunch #3**

He'd very nearly thrown up.

Emma had arranged for a lunch date for herself, himself, Lacey and . . . Neal.

He wasn't sure he'd even recognize his son. It had been so long. But when Neal walked through the door, Gold knew him instantly. He had his mother's eyes and his grandfather Peter's bearing.

He'd considered getting drunk before this lunch, but Lacey had counseled against this.

"Just screw yourself up to the sticking point and get in there," she'd told him through smiling teeth, speaking authoritatively.

He'd glared at her but nodded – _she was right._

Neal seemed as nervous as he was. "Dad," he greeted his father.

"Neal," Gold returned the greeting. "This isn't easy for me. I very much want us to reconnect and I'm afraid I may try too hard and say something completely stupid." _There - it was out there. All of it was out there._

Neal had nodded. "Emma and Lacey have been helping me get a bit different perspective on things. And I have to admit, as I've gotten older, I've begun to understand that perhaps my mother . . ." Neal paused.

"Was a manipulative bitch?" Gold suggested. "Oh wait, I probably shouldn't have said that. Lacey told me not to bad-mouth Milah. No matter how I feel about the shameless whore . . . I mean . . . the woman . . . she is still your mother. And at one time, I did love her." Gold rambled on.

Neal was actually smiling. "I'm old enough to accept that my mother is . . . " he hesitated.

Lacey suggested, "A piece of work?"

Neal and Gold both laughed.

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "Let's go at this slowly, Dad. All right? Mom will never understand, but she'll have to deal with it. I'd like to get to know my father. See what we might have in common – besides being able to attract beautiful women to our sides," he nodded at Lacey.

Emma laughed and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"That sounds . . . perfect," Gold told him. "We could do lunch . . . uh . . . maybe every other week, even an evening dinner now and then."

"We'll keep you and Lacey in mind for Thanksgiving," Neal suggested. "I'll have to forewarn you that Mom will be there . . . but there will be plenty of booze."

"I'd be willing to put up with your mother to be with you," Gold said warmly.

"Then it's a date, especially if you can bring Lacey with you," Neal told him. "She helped convince Emma to say yes to our engagement."

"You're engaged!" Gold said. "Well, congratulations!"

"Thank Lacey. I think Emma would still be just wanting us to be very good friends with frequent benefits if Lacey hadn't chatted me up."

 **Lunch #4**

Lacey didn't have lunch at a restaurant planned. Instead, she and Professor Gold had eaten one of Ms. Potts excellent plain but delicious pot pie meals. They were sitting at his dining room table, Lacey with a new book to keep her light company and Gold with his burning conscience to give him indigestion.

It was still damn awkward. He was still trying to work up the courage to apologize, to tell her how he really felt, but . . . he hadn't succeeded.

On her part, Lacey really missed Jefferson during these moments. She had quickly realized that the man had been a buffer between them, softening Gold's bitter temperament and elevating her opinion of herself.

She still wasn't a hundred percent sure why she had gone back with the man. Oh yes, she knew she had been manipulated by guilt and sympathy. She had agreed to this experiment and would do her best at the Governor's Ball to show off his re-education talents. She prided herself on keeping her commitments. But really, they still needed to talk about what had happened between them.

She thought, she believed, she knew he owed her an apology for offering her money for sex. That had probably been one of the worst, most demeaning moments of her life.

But he hadn't apologized.

She wasn't sure about his feelings for her. She remembered that there had been that tiny remark right after they had had sex when he'd told he loved her and she could swear she had over-heard him telling his mother that he loved her, but he had never, in the bright light of day, told her, never directly spoke to her about his feelings. She just wasn't sure how he felt.

But she was sure about her own feelings. She was deeply, sincerely, and helplessly in love with the man. But, without having her feelings returned, she could not, would not stay in a one-sided, hopeless relationship.

They had seamlessly gone from lunch to a lesson there at the dining room table. She had put her book aside and was now sitting in his study, her eyes crossing, trying to be cooperative. At this particular moment, Gold had decided to test her on cutlery knowledge.

She readily answered his questions, "Professor Gold, I already know which fork to use. Mr. Madden's taught me every possible esoteric utensil in existence. I know about seafood forks, pickle forks, crab forks, butter knives, grapefruit knives, dessert spoons, lobster picks and snail tongs."

She continued, "Let me tell you what I know about glasses – there are sherry glasses, champagne flutes, absinthe glasses, snifters . . . shall I go on? I know the proper way to eat soup is to scoop away from myself. I can use a knife and fork to peel and slice a banana."

He paused. _She knew more about this pretentious crap than he did_ , "Impressive," he admitted. "But who would serve a banana at a formal dinner party?" he wondered. "So, how about dancing?"

"Well, you know I know the waltz. Mr. Madden's also taught me the simple Box-Step, then the Lindy Hop, the Two-Step, and, well, I already knew the Shag."

"Oh," he was a trifle deflated. _She knew more dances than he knew._ He scratched his nose. "So, you're pretty comfortable with all of those?"

"Mr. Madden told me I was a natural."

"Well, he should know. Now, how about Topics of Conversation?"

"Mr. Madden's told me not to worry about that. He said that men will be starting up conversations with me and I would well to smile and nod as if I was actually interested in what they have to say."

"Yeah, well, that's probably right." _Damn, but she was more prepared than he was._ "So, do you have a dress picked out?" he asked.

"Mr. Madden selected one. It's a beautiful golden dress."

"Another Prada?" Gold asked.

"Versace, I think. It looks like something I could wear to accept my Oscar," she told him. "He also got me set up for hair and makeup appointments before he went away on his honeymoon."

Gold sat back. She was far and away not the street slut who'd come into his apartment with the wig and heels and heavy makeup. She now looked and acted . . . classy. He couldn't think of anything else he needed to do to get her prepared. "Then, I guess, you're ready," he finally said.

"Then, I guess, I am." Then she hesitated. "You know, I plan to leave as soon as the Governor's Ball is over."

She waited. _He wasn't going to say anything._ She sighed and got up, picking up her book, to return to her room.

"Lacey," he called to her back. She stopped but did not turn around. "Just so you know. I do think . . . I know . . . that you are a lady. A for real and for true lady. As you're well aware . . . I didn't always think that, but now . . . but now I know it's true. With all the time that we have spent together working on your transformation, I think that all I did was help you express yourself in a more conventional manner. I don't think I turned you into a lady - I think you've always been a lady, even when men as dull-witted as myself . . . and your father . . . and Keith . . . couldn't see it."

She stood quietly, "Thank you."

 _She realized that was his apology._

 _Not bad._

 _Now, if only he would share his feelings._

 **Leaving for the Governor's Ball**

She was seriously nervous. Even after Professor Gold had told her she was ready, had given her his blessing, she was still nervous. This was the largest, poshest group of people she had ever been thrust into. A lot of money, a lot of class. She debated belting a quick one down before leaving home but changed her mind. She gathered her courage and made her way downstairs.

Jefferson, just back from his honeymoon, and Professor Gold were both waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Both men were dressed in traditional black tuxedos with creamy white shirts, as well as top hats. Jefferson sported a flamboyant red cape.

It was the most dressed up she had ever seen Gold and he wore it well. He was standing absolutely still, just gaping at her.

"Well, gentlemen?" she asked, pausing for their inspection.

" _Bellissima_ ," Jefferson told her. "You look lovely. Absolutely breath-taking."

Gold didn't say anything. She walked by him and took Jefferson's hand. She turned to Gold, "Coming?"

"I think he already did," Jefferson muttered. Gold followed the two out and they entered the limo Jefferson had hired to take them to the Ball.

"I swear, I was so nervous that I downed a glass of whiskey before I left the house," Jefferson confessed.

Lacey smiled at him. "I considered doing that, but I was afraid it would make my breath smell or I'd spill it on this gorgeous dress."

"The gold color suits you. You will be the most resplendent woman at this affair," Jefferson promised her. "Don't you agree, Rum?"

Gold hadn't spoken a word. He just sat staring at her. "She's lovely," he finally whispered. _Maybe he should do more groveling here. Tell her what a POS he was, tell her, tell her how he felt, how he really felt, shout out his love for her to her, to everyone - then maybe, she would re-consider leaving him._

 _Was there anything he could say that might convince her to stay?_

 _God, he loved her. He loved her so much. She had become everything to him._

 **The Ball**

They entered the Biltmore grounds and were directed to the grand ballroom.

"Everyone's looking at us," Lacey whispered.

"No, my dear, everyone's looking at you," Jefferson corrected her. And almost immediately, they were stopped by a gentleman, requesting an introduction to Jefferson's companion.

"Well, Arthur, this is Isabelle Avonlea. I met her quite recently through Fiona Black, where she's been stashed for several weeks. Her family's been keeping her secret, having her incarcerated in some posh European girl's school."

"Swiss or English?" the man asked.

"In Spain," Jefferson explained. "She's only going to be with us a short time."

"Welcome to America, senorita," Arthur told her, taking Lacey's hand. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"I most certainly am," Lacey smiled.

"I expect to get a dance with you later," Arthur pressed.

"I'll look forward to it," Lacey told him with a kind smile.

And the evening went on this way. Gentlemen and ladies would stop by to get an introduction and whatever bit of the concocted story regarding Lacey's background that Jefferson would facilely make up. Lacey was asked to dance every dance.

Gold, who used his bum leg as an excuse not to dance and his association with Jefferson as an excuse not to congregate with women, made his way around the ballroom eavesdropping on conversations.

He watched as some petty dignitary approached Lacey and said something into her ear. She blushed and nodded, yes.

 _What was up?_ He watched and the same petty dignitary led Lacey over to sit at the Governor's Table.

If he were anywhere else, he would hop up and down and clap his hands together. _His little protégé had been singled out and was now at the top of her class._

It only got better as the evening went on. Sometime between eleven and midnight, the gossip mongers had generally decided that Lacey was one of the Bourbon family, a minor royal to be sure, but nonetheless part of the remnants of the royal house of Spain, that she really was a countess.

Jubilant, he was ready to go. He didn't think he'd be able to beat this. But then . . . he couldn't find his Lacey.

He began a search. She wasn't on the dance floor. He began circulating the fringes of the room, searching onto the expansive balconies, the curtained side chambers and the handful of opened back rooms. And it was in one of those back rooms, a billiard room, where he found his Lacey-Belle.

His blood went cold.

She was with Killian Jones, a blaggard if he'd ever known one. He'd hadn't encountered his ex-wife at this soiree, but if her lover/husband was there, then he assumed Milah was around somewhere.

He had no kind feelings for Killian Jones. After all, this was the sonofabitch that had capsized his marriage. Jones was now married to Milah, dependent on her family's money, social standing and good graces to maintain his lifestyle. It took Gold only a moment of listening in to their conversation to realize that Killian, scoundrel that he was, had recognized Isabelle Avonlea as Lacey French.

"So," Lacey was saying slowly. "We would make this a bet. If you win . . ."

"Then, you'll become my Saturday night girl, with all benefits included, until such time as I say I'm done with you," Killian clarified.

Lacey nodded. "And if I win, you'll forget everything you know about me."

"I will."

"That's not enough," Lacey told Killian.

Gold was impressed but anxious – _he knew her pool playing abilities and they were not that good – and, he had heard, Killian was a shark, a hustler of the first order_. Yet, here was his Lacey, bargaining without fear – or perhaps without any real knowledge of her antagonist's skill level.

"What else would you want?" Killian asked her.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," she responded blandly.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars!" Killian was astonished.

"What? You're good for it. And, in return, I would promise not to call your wife or anyone in her family to tell them how I know you." She stared at him without flinching.

"They won't believe you," he said, but he seemed just a little concerned.

"Even when I tell them about that interesting tattoo you have in that . . . _intimate_ place, a place only your wife and your doctor should be familiar with? We girls talk to each other Mr. Jones," she said softly.

Killian had the grace to laugh, "There is that, then." He considered briefly, assaying the likelihood that the young woman could beat him at pool. Finally, he nodded, "Very well, it's a deal."

"I get stripes," she told him and the pool game began.


	10. Done and Gone

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 10**

 **Done and Gone**

The pool game had begun.

Lacey had bet her virtue, that is she had agreed to become Killian's 'Saturday Night Girl,' against twenty-five thousand dollars and Killian's silence.

And Killian was a very good player.

Gold was well aware of this from his own history with the man. Pool was Killian's weapon of choice and he'd taken down an impressive number of opponents.

Gold was also well aware that Lacey was a so-so player at best. Hell, he'd beaten her every time (and there had been plenty of times) that he'd played her and he was average at best.

But after the first few breaks, Gold began to realize some things.

 _This was not the same woman he'd been playing pool with._

As he watched her sink shot after shot, he also – to his great amusement - saw her engaging in a number of . . . distracting . . . behaviors. When it was her turn, she would slowly _very slowly_ bend over the table, wiggle her fine behind and allow Killian a generous glimpse of her cleavage, all before taking her shot.

But more devastating to the man's play, when it was Killian's turn, she would stand by the table, gently caressing the pool cue, occasionally closing her eyes and audibly sighing – like a woman might sigh if she was pleasantly aroused.

When she slowly began licking the pool cue, wrapping her mouth around the cue stick's end at one point, Killian nearly put a rip into the cloth of the table, completely missing his shot and launching the ball off the table.

Gold was slowly realizing that Killian didn't have a chance.

Lacey wasn't just distracting the man. She was playing in a totally different manner than how she'd ever played against him. Ball after ball, he never saw her hesitate. Ball after ball, he never saw her flinch or waffle or vacillate. She played with skill and confidence.

Skulking in the corner of the room, he was able to witness her sinking ball after ball after ball until . . . until she finally played the final most satisfying ball with a solid thud as it went into the pocket. She slowly turned back to Killian.

"I expect cash or I'll be making some phone calls – Monday before noon? That should give you enough time. I think you may have more to lose in this than I do," she smiled at Killian who managed to give her a thin smile back.

"Well played Miss French. You're under Gold's roof, I take it. I'll send the money over Monday." He actually bowed to her and then nodded to Gold before leaving the room.

"You . . . you have been holding out on me. That was totally impressive," Gold had to tell her. "You're quite the little pool hustler."

She re-racked the balls and hung up her pool cue. "My dad ran a bar when I was younger and I learned to play early on. I was a . . . natural. I found I could hustle money . . . drinks . . . favors."

He was watching her closely. "So . . . why didn't you ever kick my arse? Watching you tonight, you certainly were capable of it."

She didn't answer right away. "I guess . . . I guess, I never wanted to win with you. I think I kept hoping one of us would come up with a bet that I really wanted to win."

He shook his head. "You should have kicked my arse."

He held out his hand to her and she took it. They left together. Lacey was exhausted by this point and had been more than agreeable when he suggested that it was time to leave the Ball. She waited patiently for him to gather Jefferson, who opted instead to avail himself of another ride.

"I can't believe how well this went. You got to sit at the head table with all the politicians and diplomates – hell, my mother has never got to sit at the head table. And you know what? The final rumor I heard going around about you was that you're a countess, a Spanish royal!" he announced in the car on the way home.

"Really?"

"I'm blown away. This was such hard work and I can't believe how well it turned out. I was a nervous wreck on the way to the Biltmore House and those first few hours were hell," he shared.

"Really?"

"Oh god, yes. When Killian came up and . . . well, I thought we'd all be discovered and tossed out. But then, I figured out that if someone did recognize you, that they wouldn't admit to anything because they would implicate themselves. But then, I was still afraid that they just might start a rumor that you were a free-lance masseuse who used to work out of a motel room."

"That would have been embarrassing for you," Lacey said quietly.

Gold did not notice her mood. He settled back down in the car seat and closed his eyes. When they entered his apartment, he dropped his tuxedo jacket on the floor and then went on upstairs.

"See you at breakfast tomorrow," he said as he was nearly at the top. "Let Ms. Potts know that I'll be wanting eggs tomorrow for a change. And don't do my puzzle page!"

Lacey watched him go up.

She had been considering her options all evening. She idly picked up his jacket and put it on the back of a chair.

She knew she really couldn't continue staying under Gold's roof. With the deal completed, she really didn't have any reason to remain here _not with her heart breaking every moment she remained in the man's presence_. Perhaps, if he had really apologized – said he was sorry for what he'd said rather than just acknowledging that he'd been wrong. Perhaps, if he had ever shared his feelings – if he had any feelings to share – something beyond expressing his thanks by telling her he loved her after satisfying sex.

She thought that she could go back to his mother's, but that could only be a temporary arrangement and that would likely be the first place he would look for her – if he even bothered to look for her.

She had made some new friends, Emma and, perhaps Regina. And there was always Ruby. But she didn't feel comfortable calling on any of them this early in the morning.

She went up to her room, moving as softly, as silently as she could. She carefully removed the beautiful golden dress, hanging it back up. She could stay through breakfast, she decided. No reason to sneak out in the dead of night. She'd learned that three in the morning was no time to be making important decisions.

 **Morning**

Professor Gold had bounced down the stairs, swept up the paper and tucked into his eggs. He was humming as he worked through the puzzles. Lacey picked at her food, keeping her eyes cast down.

"Do you have plans for this morning?" he asked his usual question pleasantly.

She didn't answer right away. "I've been doing a lot of thinking," she began.

"Well, that sounds serious." He looked up.

"Trying to decide what I need to do next," she clarified.

"What? Why do you have to do anything next?"

There was a knock on the door and in came Jefferson.

Grateful for the interruption, given the direction he was afraid the conversation was drifting, Gold greeted his old friend with genuine enthusiasm.

"Not that I'm displeased to see you, but why aren't you in your own house with your husband?" Gold asked.

"Ah, Victor's on a surgery rotation this week which means he's up and out of the house by four thirty so he can start operating at five. The worst part is that he has to go to bed by nine and he refuses any caffeine or alcohol because it could affect his performance. Anyway, when I did get up, I was all alone in my lovely little house wondering who else might be up at this hour and I suddenly thought I would come over and connect with my two other favorite people."

"We didn't get a chance to talk last night, Mr. Madden," Lacey began. "Other than having schedules that don't match, how is married life?"

"Wonderful, and aren't you a dear for asking," Jefferson told her. "Now, how did you two get along while I was gone?"

Neither Gold nor Lacey answered, and Jefferson looked from one to the other. "Am I picking up some tension here?" he asked.

"We had a little tiff and Lacey went to my mother's. I was able to convince her to come back," Gold shared reluctantly.

Jefferson looked at Lacey. "All right my dear. Now you tell me what really happened."

"Professor Gold said something very hurtful to me and I left with the intention of never returning. He guilted me into coming back to complete our original bargain."

Jefferson was all over Gold. "What did you say?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Gold said, his mood deflated.

"Oh, it must have been really bad. Miss French . . . or do I call you Miss Avonlea now?"

"Why don't you call me Lacey," she suggested.

"All right then, Lacey," he tried it experimentally. "Lacey, I've known this man for a long time. He can be an idiot." He turned back to Gold, "Now you did apologize, right?"

"Well . . . sorta," Gold began.

"You didn't apologize. He didn't apologize, did he? Well, Lacey, if you ever need a place to crash, please feel free to call on Viktor and me. We've got the perfect little room you can stay in."

"You don't have to make it easy for her to leave me," Gold protested.

He might have said more but there was another knock on the door.

They heard a voice shouting, "Where is that sombitch? I'm gonna kick his ass nine ways to Sunday."

Gold looked around. "You think he means me?"

"That sounds like my father," Lacey said and soon enough a very dapper, well-dressed Mr. French came in.

"You did this to me!" he accused Gold. "I thought we had an agreement. You'd pay me a thousand an' I'd never darken your door agin." He glanced around the table and nodded at Lacey. "Ma'am," he greeted her.

"What happened to you?" Lacey was astonished at the change in the man. His hair had been cut, he was shaved and he was dressed in a proper suit, a nice suit.

Mr. French gaped at her, "Hey, you is little Belle. Now didn't you clean up nice!"

"It is little Belle," Lacey confirmed for him. "Now, what happened to you?"

"I inherited five million dollars," Mr. French told her.

"What?!" Lacey stood when she heard this news.

"That sounds nice," Gold said.

"It's all your fault," Mr. French insisted.

"How?" Gold was genuinely puzzled.

"You wrote some nitwit millionaire that I had a 'most refreshin' notion o' th' true value o' money' or sum such crap."

"Wait," Gold was thinking it over. "I have the vaguest memory of getting a letter from a Midas Glover. I'd met him at some philologist convention."

"I bet there are wild times to be had with a bunch of philologists," Jefferson said under his breath.

Gold glared at his friend and continued. "We started a correspondence – Lacey, that means we were writing letters back and forth to each other and sending them to each other in envelopes with stamps. I have the vaguest memory of mentioning Mr. French to him in one of the letters. He must have taken me seriously. I had no idea that he was a millionaire."

"Five times over a millionaire," Mr. French told him.

"What did you tell him about my father?" Lacey asked, thoroughly puzzled.

"That his unique attitude about money set him apart from anyone else that I'd ever met."

Mr. French snorted, "Well, he done changed his will an' made me th' beneficiary an' then, th' next week, he up an' died."

Lacey nearly laughed, covering her mouth.

"I wus prepared to keep my end of our agreement, you know, so you'd never have to see me agin, but after this, well, you dun interfered in my life," Mr. French glowered at Gold.

"Is the money so oppressive?" Gold asked curiously.

"Now I's got to be respect-ible. Th' missus wants us t' get married. Everybody I know is touching me fur money. I ain't never been so miserable. An'," he turned to Gold, "it's all yer fault."

"Sorry," Gold said. "I never thought there'd be consequences, much less consequences of this magnitude."

French plopped down in one of the dining table chairs. Ms. Potts came in and offered him breakfast.

"I'm too upset to eat, ma'am. Jus' bring me a couple scrambled eggs, sum toast – nun o' that whole wheat crap, mind you, cat heads would be even better than toast if you got 'em, maybe a couple slabs of bacon, grits, an' hash browns."

"It'll take just a moment," Ms. Potts promised.

Mr. French let out a deep sigh and he looked over his daughter, "You lookin' fine, girl. I wudn't recognized ya' if'n I'd passed you on th' street."

"Thank you, Father," Lacey answered.

"Whut you been up to?"

"Oh, not much. I went to the Governor's Ball and sat at the head table. They thought I was a princess and I played a pool game and won twenty-five thousand dollars," she said off-handedly.

"Well, that should set you up nice," her father told her.

"I hope so, Father," Lacey told him.

"Yor step-mother, she be already makin' th' demands. She be wantin' fur us t' move t' a big house an' get a big car an' a fur coat. I think she's done spent most of the money an' I jus' got th' check. I ain't got no idea if'n I'll have any money to leave t' you when I die. I feel like I'm under attack, got so many people wantin' to borrow, or more like, just give 'em a thousand or two, that I'll prob'bly be in a hole when I finally kick off."

"Father, I'm not asking you for any of the money," Lacey told him patiently.

"Well, you be th' only one," he said sorrowfully. At that moment Ms. Potts came in with his breakfast. She set it before him and he dug into the food with gusto. "I might need t' be hirin' sum-one like yerself, Ms. Housekeeper Lady. You cooks good. You wouldn't consider comin' an workin' fer me, would ya?"

Ms. Potts appeared to think about his offer, but then she smiled at the man, "No," she said and left the room.

"She's sassy," observed Mr. French. "I like her."

"So, do I, Mr. French," Gold told him. "So, do I. Now, I must tell you, I had no idea that my letter would result in you becoming wealthy. I'm quite sorry that in applauding your attitude towards money, I've inadvertently made you wealthy enough that you're having to change your attitude towards money. I didn't realize this would happen and I'm very sorry."

"Well, too late now. Cat's dun had kittens in th' oven an' it won't help not'in' to call 'em biscuits."

"Why don't I give you the name of a good accountant? David Nolen is with the Charming Accountants firm and he can get you set up with a monthly allowance and help you make good decisions about the disposition of your millions. That way, you can also refer any requests for money to him and . . . well, he can be the bad guy. You get to say, 'I don't make any money decisions without talking to my accountant.'" Gold suggested, writing down a number to give to Mr. French.

"That might work," Mr. French seemed interested and accepted the number, tucking the paper into the breast pocket of his new suit.

It was after Mr. French had left that Jefferson turned to Lacey, "Well, that was interesting. Do you think you may ever come into some of that money?"

She shook her head, "I have no idea. How long would it take someone to spend five million?"

"Depends on how clever his buying habits are. A couple of grand houses would eat it up PDQ," grumbled Gold. "If he goes to Nolen, he'll get good advice, if he chooses to follow it."

"Well, I guess we'll see," Lacey agreed. "Gentlemen, please excuse me." And she left the table.

Jefferson looked at Gold, "Now, I'll repeat my question that I'd asked before we were interrupted. What the hell did you say?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Gold waved him off.

"That bad?" Jefferson asked.

 **Monday Morning**

After spending the rest of the weekend in her room, Lacey had made her decision. She should have twenty-five thousand shortly that would allow her to make a fresh start. She'd come up with a couple of ideas and wanted to discuss them with both Jefferson and Fiona.

She had already carefully packed a handful of the clothes that Jefferson had bought her, just basic clothes, not any of Jefferson's high-end picks. She also picked up her one precious book and her toiletries and, with everything in a small bag, she would be ready to leave when the money arrived at noon.

The money arrived, but, somehow, _ever hopeful that some things in the relationship might change,_ she waited until very late that evening, after Gold had retired, to leave.

She had held out, hoping the professor would give her a reason to stay and when he hadn't done or said anything, when he had just acted like she would stay forever, she made her decision. She had to leave.

She found herself back on the streets of the city, well past midnight. There were drunks and druggies and homeless and sundry out late. She started walking back toward the motel where she used to do business, but a kindly police officer stopped and asked if he could give her a lift, warning her that the streets weren't the safest place for a lady like herself.

She refused the ride and made a desperate decision to go to the only place she knew for certain that would take her in. She made a phone call to an Uber and got a ride.

 **Tuesday After**

"Damn it to hell!" Gold was swearing into the phone. "I got up this morning and she'd left me! Left me again! After everything I've done for her, the ungrateful wrench just up and left."

 _She'd told him she would be leaving, but . . . he hadn't wanted to believe it. He hadn't allowed himself to believe it._

"What did you expect her to do?" It was Jefferson. "I mean the deal is done."

"But we were having such a good time together," Gold whined. "We were having breakfast together and we'd argue about stuff and sometimes I'd take her out to eat and sometimes we'd go to places and stuff."

"You offered to pay her money to sleep with you," Jefferson scolded him.

"Shit, she told you that?"

"Of course, I'm her best girlfriend. She tells me everything," Jefferson informed him.

"Well, I apologized . . . well, kinda."

"Telling her you were wrong and telling her you are sorry are two different things. Hell, you were able to tell her father you were sorry, why the fuck can you not tell Lacey?"

"I . . . it's hard," he protested.

"And I hear that once you slept with her," Jefferson reminded him.

Gold got quiet. "Shit, so, she told you about that, too?"

"BFF," Jefferson said by way of an explanation. "Yeah, she did. How could you, you low-life louse, you?"

"Hey, she crawled into bed with me – naked! What was I supposed to do? Send her away? Even you had said how gorgeous she is. Hell, I think you would have nailed her if she'd crawled into bed with you."

"You knew she was in love with you," Jefferson reminded him. "How could you take advantage of her and not suggest you change the relationship?"

"I still say she was the one to take advantage of me. She knew I was drunk and horny. Anyway, she left the next morning before I could say anything!" Gold protested. "I had to track her fine arse down at my mother's who'd given the wretched thing shelter."

"And when you did track her down, what did you do? Browbeat her, guilted her into coming back to live with you, just to complete our little deal."

"Well . . . yeah," Gold admitted. "I was pretty pissed with her."

"And then, did you ever get around to telling her how you felt?"

"I told her, well, right after we did it, I told her."

"Yeah, women always believe everything a man tells them right before, during and right after sex . . . not."

"Well, I told my mother how I felt and, I figured, she'd overheard me."

"But you never told her. You never took her in your arms, looked into her gorgeous blues and told her that your heart beats only for her, that she lights up your life, that she's the cream in your coffee."

"No, I'm not gay. I don't talk like that."

"Well then, you didn't grab her, pin her to the wall and say, 'You my woman now,' or whatever you Neanderthal straights say?"

Gold sighed and in a calmer voice, he spoke, "No. I didn't. She is there with you, isn't she?"

"Of course, she is, you dim bulb. I'd invited her and where else would she have gone past midnight? She didn't feel comfortable calling any of her new girlfriends and she didn't want to impose on your mother again, although I'm sure Fiona would have taken her in."

"Will you . . . could you bring her back to the house?" Gold asked.

"I can offer to bring her, but the decision is up to her," Jefferson told him.

Gold paced and paced. He groused at Ms. Potts. He drank several glasses of whiskey. He stared out his window.

It was early afternoon, past two, when there was a buzz and Ms. Potts allowed entry to his visitor.

It was Lacey, just Lacey. She was dressed in a little denim skirt with a plain black teeshirt top with black hose and slip-on Danskos. Her face had been washed and her hair pulled back.

She had never looked more beautiful to him.

She stood quietly, perhaps waiting for him to speak, perhaps getting up her own courage before speaking.

"I want you back," Gold finally said. "I will miss you if you aren't here." _There, he'd shared his feelings – finally._

"So, my position in your household would be . . . what?"

"What?" he didn't understand.

"Am I a servant, am I your kept woman, am I still your student living on Jefferson's good graces?"

"You'd . . . you'd be my friend . . ." he thought rapidly, "and my assistant," he finished brightly. "Yeah, you could be my assistant." _This sounded good._ "We would advertise that the Spanish Countess from the Governor's Ball was really a . . . well, we'll come up with something there . . . and you and I can offer people the same make-over. Hell, Jefferson might be willing to join us for a lark, giving people advice about how they dress, their hair and make-up."

"What's to stop me from setting up shop and offering all that on my own?" she asked him.

He was stunned. "On your own? But . . . but how? You might have a little money now, but you don't have any business experience."

"Well, I know several people that can give me excellent advice on setting up a business, including your mother, who might also be willing to invest in me. And now I have the name of a good accountant. You and I, we'd be in competition with each other. I think I would do rather well. People _like_ me, certainly more than they like you."

"But I don't want you to do that," he was getting desperate. "I want . . . Lacey . . ."

"Yes?" she waited.

"Lacey, marry me."

"What?!" Whatever she'd been expecting to hear, this wasn't it.

"Marry me. We should be together. We can make love every night and make babies if you want them and we can argue when we disagree and then make up and have a good time together."

"That's your proposal?" she asked him.

"What more do you want in a man? We'll get a prenup so we won't think we're after each other's money and I'm fine if you want to work or, hell, own your own bloody dress shop, or we can go for the language coaching business together." _How could she not jump at the chance to marry him?_ "You'd have a place to stay, nice clothes. We could travel, if you like."

"So, this would be like another business deal?" she asked him slowly. "You would give me things and I would . . . fuck you?"

"Yeah, that's rather vulgar, but, yeah, that sounds about right."

Her eyes narrowed. "Even when I worked as a masseuse, I wasn't whoring myself for a man to give me things," she told him and turned to leave.

 _She was walking out on him._

"I love you, Lacey and I'm sorry I ever offered you money to have sex with me," he began and she stopped _she couldn't stop herself from stopping_. He continued, "I was completely out of line. I never thought I'd fall in love again after . . . well, after my last dalliance. But what I'm feeling for you is different and it's real and I don't want it to go away. I think . . . I hope . . . you did tell me that you loved me, didn't you?"

"I did," she admitted _so much love for the man,_ her back still to him. "But I needed some time. I still need some time."

And she walked out of his life.

 **A.N. For the un-initiated, a cat head is a large biscuit (about the size of a cat's head).**


	11. Anything Would Be an Improvement

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 11**

 **Anything Would Be an Improvement**

She had left him. She had just up and left him.

Not that he blamed her.

It was all his own fault. He had screwed up royally. Several times he had screwed up royally. So many times, he had screwed up royally.

He should never have offered her money – what had he been thinking? He should have groveled and apologized, told her over and over again that he was sorry. He should have been shouting his love for her from the rooftop.

But he hadn't.

He'd screwed up. Like he always screwed up.

 **Descent**

Things continued to dwindle – plunge - down for him. He slept in more and drank more. He reneged on his writing assignments and drank more. He opted for a leave of absence from his teaching tasks and drank more.

Jefferson had come by to visit him, trying to help him. But he'd yelled at his best friend and then drank more.

Even his mother had dropped by, likely following a phone call from Jefferson or Ms. Potts (who never said anything, just clicked her tongue as she cleaned around him).

His mother had looked down on him, literally, as he'd fallen asleep on the rug in his study.

"Get up," she'd ordered him. "When was the last time you ate or shaved or," she sniffed him, "showered?"

"I dunno," he muttered. "Who gives a fuck anyway?"

"Jefferson tells me it would look bad if I left you to your own devices and you rotted here. Why don't you clean up and get something to eat?"

"Why?" he asked. "Whut's the use?"

"You're not dead yet." She walked around the room, noting the empty bottles. She fastidiously moved some newspapers to one side on the couch and sat down. She looked her son over. "Maybe I should set you up on a date? Get you up and out of the house." She was considering alternatives. "Yes, I'll do that." She didn't wait for a response.

He tried to reason with her, "Oh God no, Mother. Please. I don't want to date anyone, certainly not right now, maybe never again."

"You need to get up and out of this alcohol-infused hissy fit you're having. You either gird your loins and go out with the women I set you up with or . . ."

He tested her, "Or what? I don't know that you really have any leverage over me."

"You think not?" She smiled at him. "How about this? If you don't go out with them, I'll start coming over here - every single day - to see how you're doing. Every. Single. Day," she threatened him. "I might even get your father, I hear he's out of rehab, over here to check on you, try to get him to spend some quality time with you."

He was beaten and he knew it. "All right mother, but please, please don't set me up with any of those twats . . . I mean, twits of young girls. I cannot abide them, their chatter or . . . their stupidity."

She stopped at the door, considering. "Very well. I'll impose on my most intelligent and sophisticated friends to go out with you. Don't embarrass me."

 **The Parade**

And so, it began. His mother used her many contacts, social and business, called in favors, and threatened and blackmailed people, to find acceptable women for her son to take out.

The first was Sarah Fischer. Gorgeous Nordic blonde, but he clearly wasn't her type and her disdain was evident from the beginning. Of course, he'd dressed in jeans and an old UNC tee-shirt. It was only his Old Money demeanor that got them seated in the restaurant.

"Your mother said you've just been through a break-up," Sarah said over the candlelight at the table.

"I was dumped," he told the woman. "Probably deserved it. . . . I definitely deserved it."

And then he found himself talking about Lacey, how perfect she was, how intelligent and nice and . . . well, he didn't notice Sarah's eyes glazing over.

His mother had called the next morning.

"Sarah said you were an absolute bore. Next time," she warned him, "put on a suit and don't talk about Lacey."

"Well, send me somebody who isn't so serious."

"That could be Cordie," his mother told him cautiously. "Be careful, she knows more swear words than you do and can drink you under the table twice over."

Fashion-conscious Cordelia DeVille ran nearly forty-five minutes late. She had obviously had a few before she connected with him (which was all right since while waiting for her, he'd partaken himself). She stumbled into the restaurant in her sky-heels, designer dress and white fur stole.

"Well, you're rather skinny," she announced, looking him over, before sitting down. "But the suit is nice."

"You wear fur?" he asked.

"Baby seal. And I smoke and I eat meat and I drive a gas-guzzling behemoth. Any objections?" she challenged him.

"Not one to judge," he answered.

"Then we should get on famously."

He was surprised that he liked Cordie. She was totally self-absorbed and a hedonist, a lot like himself, maybe too much like himself. She went toe-to-toe on insults and he enjoyed the banter. But as the evening wore on, he realized something was missing.

"Cordie, I'm delighted to find that I'm enjoying your company, but I don't feel that there can be anything more between us than friendship. Am I right?"

Cordie laughed. "Oh, you got that right. I only agreed to go out with you in order to get into your mother's good graces. I could totally go for her."

"I know my mother prefers men, but I wouldn't be surprised to find that she could go for the occasional bit of experimentation," he told her. "Shall I let her know that you were brilliant company and maybe she might want to have a lunch date with you?"

"That would be wonderful. I'll tell her that I had a great time with you, but there was just no . . ."

"Fireworks?" he suggested. "Chemistry?"

She nodded and raised her glass, "Here's to fireworks and chemistry."

He had to agree with the toast.

His mother had called him, pleased that he'd made some effort, even if the date wasn't going to lead to a second outing.

The parade of women continued but seemed to go downhill from Cordie. There was Mallie, one of his mother's good friends, who thought he was a scumbag. The worst was Zury Blue, who thought herself much too good for him and who disapproved of his lifestyle, his choice of churches, his drinking, his clothing, his . . . well, everything. He took her home early.

None of these women could compare to Lacey, with her quick wit and her deep insights. _And her eyes, and her cute little figure and her . . . the whole package._

"I've got someone else who has been begging me to set you up with her," his mother told him. "I owe her a little favor and going out on a date with you is her payback. She's a bit younger than the other women I've set you up with, but you can just suck it up. You say you object to younger women, but you obviously don't - considering the age of the woman you're moping over. But do watch yourself with this one."

Imagine his surprise when Zelena had shown up - Zelena, the daughter of one of his previous lovers. Zelena, who was openly lustful and much too handsy. She attempted to put her hand on his crotch and he had taken her hand and held it on the table. When she tried to pull it away, he refused to budge, holding her gaze.

She lit up, "Oh my, you're going to be a fighter. That will make things sooo much more interesting. My place or yours?" she asked.

"Zelena, I'm squee'd out because your mother and I were . . . uh . . . intimate. If just feels a little incestuous."

"Hey, that's what makes it hot," Zelena told him. "You can compare how we are in the sack.".

He tried again, "I don't think we're particularly compatible, Zelena. I will drop you off and we'll call it a night."

"Oh, come on. I'm just talking about fucking with no emotional involvement. Most men would jump at that kind of a relationship," she told him, still trying to rub up against him as they stood in front of the restaurant.

He peeled her off of himself and stepped away from her. "I'm calling you a ride, Zelena. I'm having someone else take you back to your mother's."

He'd shunted her, steaming and screaming, into the Uber, but he felt that he had to get away from her while they still had an audience – _no telling what kind of nonsense she might make up if he was seen leaving with her_.

Her blatant assumption that they would have sex and her disregard of his personal preferences had made him feel cheap and used.

He caught his breath.

 _He had abrupt insight into how Lacey had felt when he'd offered her money._

 **One More Chance**

"It didn't work out," he told his mother. "I think you've set me up with every eligible woman in town. Mother, I'm just . . . I don't know that dating is the right direction for me to recover from my relationship . . . or my near relationship, such as it was, with Lacey."

"Well, most of the women have complained what a jerk you were," his mother told him. "I think I may have just the person in mind."

"No more, Mother, please. I'm tired of trying."

"One. More. Date." She'd told him sternly, looming over him as he lay stretched out on his leather sofa. "You'll have to see her on her schedule and that means she'll be over here early Saturday morning. Clean up your act," she'd ordered him.

"Doan want to," he'd muttered. "Who goes on a date early in the morning?"

So, he hadn't bothered to clean up his act. Friday night, he'd drank, luxuriating in burning amber whiskey until he passed out in one of the chairs of his study.

 **A New Day**

It was early morning. There were odd clinking sounds coming from the dining room and he thought he might be hearing voices.

Then he thought he heard someone come into the study. He nearly screamed when someone dared to open the curtains allowing the morning sun to sear through into his hungover brain.

"Close the goddamn curtains!" he shouted.

"I didn't know these curtains would open. All this time, I thought you'd nailed them in place." He heard a bright lyrical voice that sounded somehow, familiar.

"Well, it's worse than what you told me."

He stilled. Yes, he recognized _that_ voice.

"His mother had told me he wasn't getting better." Now that was Jefferson.

"His mother may be right," _that_ voice continued softly.

He could feel _her._ She had come over to his chair which was tilted all the way back and she was standing next to him.

He blinked his eyes – against the brightness – blinked them open.

"You have to go. I'm expecting a date," he croaked out.

"At this hour?" asked Jefferson.

"My mother set it up," he explained.

"This is how you greet a date?" Lacey asked him.

He didn't answer right away. His soddened brain had begun to form a suspicion. "I'm still a little drunk from breakfast," he admitted. "Are you my date?"

Lacey gave him a gentle smile. "In a manner of speaking."

"Your mother wants her to do an experiment with you," Jefferson spoke up. "We have to turn you into a decent, pleasant human being in time for some big charity event your mother sponsors."

"I think it will be difficult," Lacey said. "It will require complicity and a willingness to work hard and make serious changes, but with a little work, I think I should be able to take you anywhere."

"Shit," was all he managed to get out.

"One of my first steps is to begin a swear jar," Lacey said pensively. "A dollar for each word of profanity. And it will all be donated to . . . uhm . . . whichever political party you least approve of."

"Well, that could be any one of them," Gold glared at her. He had managed to sit up.

"Do you have any ideas of what else you'll be working on?" Jefferson asked Lacey.

"Manners, for certainty. Learning to act like he's sincerely interested in other people – instead of dismissing them. Perhaps take a stab at reducing his alcohol consumption – I think that plays a significant part in his disagreeable nature," Lacey explained.

"Would you need to stay here?" Jefferson asked her. "You know, you're welcome to continue living with Viktor and me."

"Thank you, but I think that living here might make things easier," she answered.

Gold had listened to this interchange. "You sure about this? I don't know that I'm capable of change," he told her. _He couldn't let himself feel too much._

"I don't know if you are, either," she answered him honestly.

"So why?" he asked. "Why are you really here?"

She sat down next to him. "I couldn't get you out of my head. I thought it would get easier, but instead of missing you less, I missed you more."

"I went on a date with someone," he began.

She didn't say anything.

"She obviously expected . . . uh . . . a physical relationship and I didn't want that . . . with her. I felt cheap . . . and used." He stopped, closing his eyes. "I have a different appreciation for how you might have felt when I offered you money for sex. And . . ." he opened his eyes and looked at her, "I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed that I was so . . . clueless. And I grieve over what might have been if only I had been a better man."

"Now that sounds sincere," she told him softly.

He nodded and they locked eyes for a long moment. It wasn't as uncomfortable as he'd thought he'd be. "What have you been doing?" he asked.

"Well, I will always have you to thank for this - you gave me options. Something I had never had before. So now, I'm trying to decide. Maybe I'll go to work in some little dress shop – I can do that now. Or perhaps, I'll even open a little dress shop of my own. Viktor and Jefferson have been urging me to get my realtor's license, if you can believe that. And there's something that I've always daydreamed about, but never thought it could be," she paused. "And this is a little difficult to share, to say out loud, but I've always wanted to be a librarian. I love books and reading and I want other people to have that same love. Perhaps I could pursue some coursework and make that happen."

He gave her a gentle smile. "Maybe you could open a bookstore instead of a dress shop," he suggested.

"Do you think this town could support two eclectic bookstores?" she asked him.

"If we can support more than twenty-five breweries, we can support two bookstores," he told her and their eyes met again.

"I'll have to give it some thought then."

She smiled at him and it took his breath away. _He was so not worthy of this woman._ She'd stood up, not breaking eye contact.

"Let's get you a shower and a shave – and maybe a haircut. Jefferson, how do you think he would look with short hair?" she asked.

"Well, anything would be an improvement," Jefferson replied.

"Fuck you," Gold muttered to his best friend.

"There's the first dollar. You might need to get one of those little counters to keep up," Jefferson advised.

"Go away, Jefferson," Gold spoke. He had not looked away from Lacey.

"Well, I can see my work here is done," Jefferson was nearly laughing as he rose and headed toward the door. "Any time you need moral support -" he said to Lacey. "Don't fuck it up again," were his parting words to Gold.

Once they were left alone, he began slowly, "I do love you, you know. When I fell in love with Milah . . . and with Cora . . . it was like a tidal wave. It was powerful, and sudden and swept me away and then . . . it was over, just as quickly as it had come on, the feelings left. But with you . . . my feelings started small and they weren't even there all the time. But they kept growing and, even now, every day I feel more and more love for you. Every day, I feel I can't love you anymore but then - I do."

He sniffed. "I understand if you don't want to pursue a relationship with me. I've been told that I'm a difficult man to love."

"Oh, that you are," she agreed with him. "Are you really going to work with me? On getting ready for this Valentine's Gala?"

"That's the one she does for the Heart Center of the hospital, isn't it? Wait a minute. Isn't that a fuckin' costume party?" He shook his head, "I don't know."

"That's two. Perhaps you could go as the back end of a horse," she suggested. "That wouldn't require any costume on your part."

"Maybe I'll go as a disgruntled, pissed-off landlord," he suggested.

"And I'll be one of your tenants who has to pay her rent in trade," she finished for him.

"Hey, that could work – for me . . . but not for you. You aren't, you never have been that person," he told her quietly.

She was smiling. "Or we could get some of those spray-on leather pants that Jefferson considered for the wedding party. We'll get some body-paint and you can go as a beast," she suggested.

"If I go as a beast then you must go as my Beauty. I'd like that. I might even agree to the pants." Gingerly he rose up out of his chair. "You did agree to marry me, didn't you?" he asked heading up to the bathroom.

"What?! No! Never did," she protested following him up the stairs back to his bedroom on the way to his _ensuite_ bathroom.

He leaned her against the bedroom door gently pinning her between himself and the door. "I know I'm the only man you've ever been with," he whispered in her ear and he kissed her ear. "And I know you enjoyed yourself," he kissed her cheek. "And I know you love me," and he kissed her mouth.

She was feeling shivery and not a little befuddled. "I do. I do love you."

"Why don't you join me in the shower?" he asked her, his voice soft and persuasive.

 _She really wanted to._ "I think we might be rushing things. Ask me again another time."

He nodded. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "All right then." He pulled back and let her go. "Well, unless you're going to shower with me, you need to skedaddle out of here. I'll join you in the library in about twenty minutes."

 **Decision Made**

Lacey waited in the library. She wasn't sure why she'd let Fiona convince her to do this. And Jefferson. Both of them pushed her into going back to Professor Gold's apartment. Both of them pushed her into this silly experiment.

But she had wanted to see him again. Oh, but when she had seen him, her heart had broken. He'd looked small and frail, lying on the recliner, struggling to focus his eyes, slurring his speech. He was a broken man.

Oh, she couldn't leave him now.

Especially after everything he'd told her. Especially after his confession of love. _Especially after he'd tried to get her into the shower with him._

And why hadn't she gone with him? Right now, they'd be all soaped up and likely, he'd be bending her over and . . . .

Oh, maybe she should pull herself together and go back to Jefferson's before it was too late . . . before she gave in to her . . . urges. But she didn't want to.

He seemed to have changed.

He seemed contrite, genuinely sorry for his past missteps. He had told her he loved her, loved her differently than anyone before her.

She knew, she knew she would never be able to leave him again. She was mulling over her new position, her new options, when he came back into the library. He walked towards her, giving her his slow smile, his eyes soft and promising.


	12. Bashin' Mailboxes

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 12**

 **Bashin' Mailboxes**

Standing with her back to a bookcase in his library, Lacey caught her breath. Dressed in a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and dark blue jeans, his demeanor was full-bore sex-on-a-stick.

And he was coming for her.

She wasn't sure if she should turn aside and run away from him or if she should just drop her panties right there between Jane Austin and Jack Kerouac. She seriously considered hopping up on the pool table and offering herself up to the man.

"This experiment," he began. "What is it you're actually trying to do?"

"I just have to try to get you to act pleasantly around other people, without being rude to them, or offending them."

"So, a complete personality change, huh?"

She nodded, "Yes, I guess so."

"And what do you get out of this?" he asked.

"Your mother will owe me a favor."

He sucked in his breath. "That could be nice." He was standing very close to her. "And you get to live here and enjoy Ms. Pott's excellent cooking."

"There's that."

"What do I get out of it?"

"Huh?" _He was standing too close. She was having difficulties concentrating._

"What do I get out of it?" he repeated his question softly. "It's not like I want to be able to go to work in a ladies' dress shop."

"Uh . . . I guess you get the satisfaction of being a decent human being," she suggested.

He shook his head. "Not enough."

"Well, what do you want?"

He brushed her hair away from her shoulders. He traced the back of his hand down her face. "You should know, especially if you're thinking about moving back here, that . . . I . . . I have carnal thoughts where you are concerned. Unlike Jones, who only desired you for the weekend, however, I want you twenty-four/seven."

"Do you?" she asked, her voice nearly squeaking.

His hand, warm and strong, traced down her arm. "I would very much like for you to shower with me. And I would like to share my bed with you. I think I would enjoy making you scream with pleasure."

She had no response for this, not daring to look at him.

"But," he continued, and she could feel his breath, sweet and hot on her neck, "I also want you sitting across from me at breakfast, finishing up the puzzle page when I get stuck. I want to hear you share about whatever books you're reading. I want you to take me into sketchy un-starred restaurants and get me to eat food that comes out of a jar." He hesitated, "I . . . I want to watch you tuck our child into bed after you've read him a story. I want to share an ordinary life with you – an extraordinary woman."

Lacey had no words. She found herself wiping away tears.

"I'm going to give you time . . . and space. If ever you're ready . . . whenever you're ready," he told her. And again, with the forehead kiss.

 **Uncomfortable Conversations**

Lacey somehow found the strength to settle back into her own bedroom, fetching her capsule wardrobe from Jefferson's and hanging her things back up between the Prada and Versace clothing that she had left behind. She ate a quiet supper sitting across from the man, grateful that he was comfortable with her silence. Only when they had gotten to a piece of Ms. Potts' excellent caramel crumb cake did he speak up.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked her.

"It just feels different," she told him.

He nodded. "Somewhat. Yes, yes it does," he agreed and then shrugged. "This is what happens when you start talking about feelings. I never understood why women always want to talk about feelings and 'how was your day?' and all that nonsense." He stopped a moment, "But . . . I guess I'm starting to enjoy parts of that." Again, he gave her that gentle, sweet, slightly crooked smile and she found herself smiling back at him.

The morning of the next day, her father dropped by. "I hear'd you living' here agin an' not wid those two faggots."

"Viktor and Jefferson prefer to be called gay, Father," Lacey told him.

"Yeah, whatever," her father shrugged her off. "I wanted ye t' know, I'm gonna be marryin' Miss Lily on Sa'urday an' I really would like it if you wuz there."

"What?! You are really going to marry that . . . that woman?!" Lacey stood up.

"Well, yeah. We gotta a common law marriage as it is an' we'd jus' thought we'd make it official," he told her. "Now that I gots money an' I'm all respec-tible."

Lacey glared at him, "Tell me, is she going to be wearing a tube top for the ceremony?"

"Nah, but it'd be okay if that's whut you wanta wear. We're not bein' formal 'bout any o' this."

"Right," Lacey replied.

"An' Professor Gold, you be invited too," Moe French turned to his daughter's teacher-now-student.

"I'd be delighted," Gold told the man. He was enjoying himself immensely.

He listened to Lacey rant after her father had left.

"I can't believe he is actually going to marry that woman. I went to high school with her."

"Is she that objectionable?"

Lacey rolled her eyes. "He picked her up in a convenience store. He was buying lard to fry up some catfish, and she made some . . . uh . . . suggestive comments about what all else he could do with that can of lard. Then he lit her cigarette and she showed him her bra and, well, one thing led to another. The most positive thing I can say about her is that she has managed to maintain steady employment. She wears an orange vest on her job and her best shoes are steel-toed Redwings."

"Now Lacey. You are sounding like a bit of a snob," he told her.

Lacey stopped and glowered at him. Then . . . she relented. "Yes, I guess I am. It's just hard for me, you know. He never got around to marrying my mother and she . . . I always felt that my mom deserved better."

"If she was anything like you, I'm sure she did," Gold told her gently. "So, what am I to expect at this wedding?"

"It's two o'clock at a bowling alley, the Starlight. That's the only one that hasn't blacklisted my father."

"Afternoon wedding then. So, you'll be wearing your black Prada?" he asked smiling.

"More like a black tank top from Old Navy and a blue jeans skirt," she answered. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much so," he admitted. "Should I rent us a pickup truck or steal a bulldozer to get us there?"

She rubbed her forehead. "You're no help. I don't know how I'm going to make it through this."

"I'm old-school, so I'd suggest prodigious amounts of alcohol. I would think that Jefferson might be able to scrounge up any number of other things that could give you a buzz and make the entire event seem unreal."

"You think I'm blowing this out of proportion," she accused him.

He shrugged.

"We'll see how you feel when you're eating barbequed Spam on a saltine cracker."

 **The Wedding**

Lacey and he had stayed on the sidelines of the sideshow that was her father's wedding.

The ceremony had been . . . well, interesting was one word for it. He had observed that many of the attendees wore white socks and tee-shirts, many with their cigarette packs folded up in their sleeves. There was a variety of dentition deficits, hairstyles in danger of getting caught in ceiling fans, and, yes, there were tube tops. He was hit on by any number of the women _Lacey told him it was because of how he was dressed – he looked like he had a salaried job._

He perused the buffet beginning at the end opposite the chocolate fountain. Lacey was there to help him with the unfamiliar items. She pointed out the barbequed spam on the saltines. She also pointed out the little sausages – "Here, it's pronounced Vy-ee-ner, not Vienna sausages. They've classied them up by putting them on toothpicks," she explained. "And before the evening is over, they'll be dipping them in the chocolate fountain."

He suppressed a shudder. "And what is that?" he pointed to an odd-looking dish. "And that?" he pointed to something else he didn't recognize.

"Oh, that first tray is patatas bravas," she told him. "They've made it with tater tots and Old El Paso Picante sauce." She looked at the other tray. "And those are chitlins."

"Which are . . . ?"

"Fried pig intestines," she answered. "They like them doused in habanero hot sauce, so beware."

"Indeed," was all he could say. "Now, is there a wedding cake?"

"Not exactly. My daddy always preferred pie over cake, so they've got an array of wedding pies, including some pecan pie and some sweet potato pie all served with a healthy dose of Cool Whip."

He sampled judiciously. He also purposely remained sober so that Lacey could drink herself silly and he would be available to drive. Plus, sober, he could walk through the large crowd of attendees and eavesdrop on various snatches of conversations.

"Fur th' longest time, I thought Moe wuz a detective. Th' cops kept bringin' him home."

"Well, you know she went to school with Belle. They wuz in the same graduatin' class, 'ceptin she didn't grad-u-ate."

"Well, I heard that when she let Moe clean fish in th' livin' room, that clinched it fur him. She wuz th' one."

 _Good lord, Lacey had come from this . . . and she still managed to turn out . . . well, as Lacey._

Gold acknowledged he was a snob, but, if he compared these people to some of his mother's pretentious friends, there was probably more honesty and there was a certain clarity in their values.

It was at the reception that they both noticed Lacey previous employer in attendance – the same fellow that Gold had thrashed outside of his apartment.

Keith must have been drunk at that time as he didn't seem to have any clear memories of that event. Here, he greeted Lacey eagerly, ignoring Gold, and promptly propositioned her.

Lacey did her best to be pleasant to the lug, but he didn't seem to be taking her hints. It took Keith a moment to realize that Gold was the man blocking his action and, while Lacey set down her drink and excused herself to powder her nose, he offered Gold money to get some action-time with Lacey.

"You think I'm her pimp?" Gold asked him.

"Well yeah. Why else would she be hanging out with someone your age? – a hot little piece of ass like Lacey."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but Miss French is currently working as an instructor and is helping me with a little project," Gold explained.

"Whatever you want to call it, Jack. How about a thousand for the whole night?"

"Not interested," Gold said shortly.

"Half a night?"

Gold shook his head.

"Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes?! This isn't the Olympics, man. Trying coming in second, even third for a change," Gold advised him.

"Whut?" Keith didn't understand.

Gold looked at the man for a long moment and, somehow without Gold raising his hand, just by looking at him, Keith began to feel threatened and he took a step back.

"All right. All right. I'll try again another time. She'll get tired of you soon enough," Keith muttered.

Gold watched the man stumble away. "That's what I'm afraid of," Gold muttered to himself.

When she came back, Lacey looked around, worried. "Is he gone?"

"I think so," Gold picked up Lacey's drink and handed it back to her.

"I was afraid things would escalate and you might have punched him out."

"I thought about it," he admitted. "He was . . . offensive, but I didn't think you'd like it."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time that I've gone to a wedding that ended up in a fistfight, they're a lot like funerals that way, but . . . " she stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, "I am proud of you for restraining yourself."

"Still, I'm not sure that words have been sufficient to make this arsehole back off. He doesn't seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer and I'm concerned that he might try something."

It wasn't long after this, that Lacey shared she was feeling dizzy.

"I don't understand, I just had a little to drink," she told Gold. "I'm feeling really odd."

"Let's get you back home then," Gold told her. But he was concerned. _This wasn't like Lacey. She hadn't drunk all that much. Had Keith slipped something into her drink?_

He realized that, if Keith did have some nefarious plan in place, then escorting a stumbling Lacey out to his car could be dicey. Keith would likely try jumping him when he was focused on the woman and then just dragging a flailing Lacey off.

"Yo," he called out. "Maurice," he called out to Lacey's father. "Spare me a couple of minutes, would you?"

Maurice looked bewildered but agreed, stepping away from his new bride.

"I think Keith has some plan to kidnap Lacey and I need your help to get her to my car so I can get her back home safely."

"Whut?! That sonofabitch! I wudn't have invited him at-all, but Lily had wanted him t' come. I think she wanted him t' know that she wuz gettin' married an' he cud go fuck-off as fur as she wuz concerned."

Maurice proved to be the caring father, as Gold had hoped he might be, under all his bluster. Maurice called over several other men. They weren't very big, but there were at least seven of them and they all knew _and liked_ Lacey. He learned during their brief time together that they all worked together and knew Moe (and Lacey) from the local bars. Together they gave Gold an escort to get the floundering Lacey back to his car. He asked them to make sure that Keith didn't leave the ceremony for at least a half hour and several of the men grinned. That shouldn't be a problem.

Gold drove her home and listened to her slur her words. She was acting silly and giddy and was certainly more clumsy than usual. He pulled into the garage. He looked around before getting out of the car. He just hoped those dwarves had been able to keep Keith busy. _He didn't think she was just drunk. He debated if he needed to run her over to the ER._

"Are you all right?" he asked before he got her out of the car.

"Yeah, still funny feeling, like I might could puke," she admitted. She sighed, "I guess Lurline has come a waaaayssss since she wuz Prom Queen. She an' her boyfriend got arrested that night. He was . . . driving his pickup truck," Lacey started laughing, "an' she wuz bashin' in mailboxes wid a beer bottle."

"I understand you two went to school together," he began, taking her hand to give her some support as she struggled to get out of his car.

"Yeah, you musta heard that frum sum o' th' people there. Lurline wuz reeee-al popular . . . prob'bly 'cause she put out. I wuz . . . well, not so pop-pop-pop-u-lar 'cause I . . . I din't do dat stuff."

"You were waiting for the right man," he said quietly.

"Lurline's philosophy wuz there wuz no diff'rence 'tween Mr. Right an' Mr. Right Now." She stood a moment, wavering on her feet. "Do you wanna have sex with me . . . I mean, tonight?"

He carefully considered his answer. "I do . . . but I want you sober and very much in the moment when we . . . re-consummate our relationship. So, sweetheart, I will have to tell you that I don't think it would be a good idea . . . tonight."

"Oh," she pouted, disappointed. "Well, how 'bout I take off my blouse now?" she asked him.

He nearly swallowed his tongue. _She was really out of it._ "Please, keep your clothes on. We have to walk from here to the apartment."

"Then, I'll take off my blouse," she told him, dissolving into giggles. "An' I'll show you my bra."

"I'll count myself blessed," he told her. "I didn't even have to light your cigarette."

 **The Apartment**

Somehow, he managed to get the drunken Lacey back to the apartment and straight up to her bedroom. Despite her inebriated state, she was able to wrap herself around him, kissing him soundly before he could extricate himself.

He couldn't quite stop himself and realized that he was kissing her back. He felt her hands on his shirt, pulling it out of his pants and then he felt her slipping her hands under the material next to his skin.

He pulled back, "Missy, you are going to bed," he said sternly.

"My idea too," she told him, speaking into his chest.

"By yourself," he told her.

"Oh," she frowned. "Well, help me undress," she asked, swaying as she tried to stand upright under her own power. She turned her back to him, "Unzip me . . . please."

He closed his eyes, but immediately realized he would have to peek to negotiate the zipper. As he drew it down, he could see she was wearing some little blue confection . . . a bustier or corset or some lace and satin complex designed to augment the feminine form. In the dim light, it did seem to match the color of her eyes. Before he could move away, she slipped the sleeves off her shoulders and allowed the dress to fall to her feet. She turned around and he gaped.

"Jefferson helped me pick out dis one. He often would go on an' on . . . 'bout how im-por-tant good foun-da-tion gar-mits were to one's a-ppear-ance," she told him, struggling to speak clearly.

"Jefferson knows altogether too much about women's underclothes," he managed to get out. His mouth was dry and he thought his eyes must be about to pop out.

The little one-piece garment pulled in her waist and lifted up her bosom. _She looked good enough to eat._

"Dis wuz horribleee ex-spen-sive, but it do gimme cleavage," she looked down at herself.

"It does," he had to agree. _What else could he do?_

"Help me out o' dis?" she asked.

"I think not. Get on the bed and I'll take off your shoes, but that's as much as I will do for you."

She fell backward onto the bed and he kept his word, removing her shoes.

"One more kiss 'fore you go?" she asked plaintively. "Sos I know you're not mad at me."

 _Emotional blackmail. He'd been subjected to this enough times to recognize it when he heard it._

But he wanted to kiss her and he wasn't mad at her. "No hands," he admonished her and he sat on the side of the bed. He tried his best to keep things on an avuncular level but he felt her open her mouth and heard her moan, a small whimpery sound. He deepened the kiss and felt her go limp.

Then he heard a little snort . . . or was it a snore. She was asleep _or passed out_.

Well enough. He carefully tucked her in, spreading her hair out on the pillow, and left her for the night, curious to see if she would beat him down the stairs the next morning.

 **Morning**

"Mornin' Sunshine," he greeted her as she dragged down the stairs. For a change, he was the first up. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been chewing on gym socks all night. My mouth is dry, my head hurts . . . my hair hurts," she told him. "I don't understand. I just had that one drink . . . Hey, you don't, you don't think that . . . do you think Keith slipped something into my drink?"

"I had wondered. He's capable of that type of thing, isn't he?"

"I'm sure. I guess, I'm lucky I made it out of there and I have you to thank," she told him. He poured her some water and handed her a couple of aspirin.

"Your dad and a bunch of these little guys all helped me get you out to the car and they were going to try to keep Keith at the reception, so he couldn't follow us back here. I guess they were successful."

"Well, I'm here and I'm safe and sound. I . . ." she hesitated. "I really don't remember too much after Keith had first come over to us last night." She bit her lip, unsure of herself. "Did I do or . . . say anything . . . inappropriate last night. Anything that I need to apologize for?"

"You were a perfect lady," he told her with a straight face.

"Oh good. I was afraid I'd shown you my bra or something."

He smiled gently. "No such luck."

 **Educational Progress**

She thought her job was likely much harder than his had been.

After all, Lacey had been a lady beneath the thin veneer of hoochie clothing, flamboyant makeup and her lazy accent, but she knew that the good man that he was, that he might become, was buried deeply beneath the layers of sarcasm, contempt, and cynicism. He'd learned to put up barriers to protect himself – from his parents, his wife, his lover and now, that's who he was. He believed he was unworthy and he expected abandonment - and that's what he got. Lacey knew that she had contributed to his mindset, for she too had abandoned him.

But she had come back.

But now, he was slowly softening, slowly beginning to trust, slowly accepting that he wasn't this completely objectionable human being.

The next morning, she found a red rose by her place at the breakfast table. "Thank you," she told him. He ducked eye contact and made no reply.


	13. Threshold

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 13**

 **Threshold**

Lacey quickly discovered that Professor Gold was more than capable of pleasant behavior, but just chose to be a complete and utter ass much of the time. He seemed to enjoy irritating people and didn't find it worth the effort to be nice to others. He was also incredibly bright and talented and tended to disdain the lazy and the ill-prepared.

At the same time, she began to realize that many people did not hesitate to make demands and requests and ask for special leniency from him, intruding into his privacy without a second thought. No wonder he could be such a jerk – his attitude and demeanor would sometimes keep some of the leaches at arms length.

She also remembered that he had lowered Granny's rent when he'd found out she was feeding homeless people with her leftovers and knew, she just knew, there was a kind and wonderful man in there.

She did find that much of their work together was simply conversation, that and taking him out in public where she would continually have to remind him to interact with people without insulting them. She did her best to give him gentle guidance focused on bringing out the good man that was inside of him. She tried to help him see the humor in otherwise aggravating situations. She struggled to help him gain perspective, to attend to the bigger picture, to not take things personally.

Restaurant behavior had emerged as a particular challenge for the man. She explained why it just made sense to treat the servers with kindness and respect.

"It's a hard job," she explained, "Often with low pay and few benefits. And you have to put up with jerks."

"They're paid to bring me the food that I've requested. It's not rocket science," he complained.

"Well, you need to remember that they aren't the ones that prepared the food and if there's a problem, it just might, maybe be in the kitchen."

"So, I should convey my dissatisfaction to the kitchen staff?" he asked.

"Unless it's flagrant, I'm telling you to suck it up and take your future business elsewhere."

"But how will they ever improve if they don't get feedback?" he asked.

"It doesn't work that way," Finally, in exasperation, she told him, "I will tell you that if you act like a jerk, they might spit in your food."

"They wouldn't?!" he was appalled.

"Who's to know? They get even and you get spit," she explained.

"You need to get lunch more often with my mother. She could benefit from this lesson," he told her.

"Your mother is always courteous to wait-staff," she told him. "She figured out the spit-thing a long time ago."

 **Applications**

Then there was her own future that kept coming up. At Gold's insistence, even while working with him, Lacey had applied to begin the coursework for the realtor's license and was able to pick up hours with online and a few live courses. She'd also applied for the Fall semester at UNC and was stunned when she was accepted into their Returning Learners Program.

"I'll help you with the tuition," he promised her. "I owe you that much."

"I . . . I don't know that you should. It would mean that I would owe you," she stammered. "I'm sure I can get a loan."

"Lacey, you know I can never repay what I owe you," he told her sincerely. "If it would make you feel better, I can loan you the money. I'll give you a better rate and much more generous terms than anyone else will."

"I'll think about it," she promised him.

And the next morning she found, along with the usual fresh red rose, a briefcase – for her studies, he'd explained.

 **Neil**

They were nearly a month into his re-education and Lacey wasn't sure if she was his teacher or his social secretary. She made sure that he kept up his contacts with his son, sometimes joining him with Neil and Emma to make a foursome, other times, getting he and Neil to do something - just the two of them – long drives with their cameras up in the mountains, a mis-begotten canoe trip together (Neil had a great time, Gold complained about . . . well, everything), the occasional scientific lecture or literature reading and, most often, just quiet lunches at local restaurants (Neil would be sure to give her a detailed report on his father's behavior).

Gold always came back from these excursions quiet and pensive.

"I missed so much with him," he told her late one afternoon. They were in his library where Lacey had been working on one of her online courses. "Maybe I should have worked harder to save my marriage to his mother."

"I was told that she was sleeping around on you," Lacey reminded him.

"But perhaps for his sake, I should have forgiven her and taken her back." He was moping.

"She left you, didn't she? I don't know that any amount of forgiveness on your part would have persuaded her to return."

He sighed, "I guess not. I still blame myself for the breakup of my marriage. I've always thought . . . that . . . if . . . I had somehow been a better person, a different person . . . "

"I'm biased, you understand," Lacey had gotten up and came over to him, sitting down beside him on the sofa. "But I think that Milah was an idiot. She didn't appreciate what she had with you."

"She wanted more," he told her.

"Well, she got Killian Jones – who lives on her family's money and, I happen to know, cheats on her using said family's money to pay for his wayward ways. How is that better than what you were offering? I can't see it. As I said, I think she was an idiot."

Gold sat a moment and sniffed. "It haunts me that I can't move on. I blame myself and I'm angry, furiously angry at her for what she did – not so much to me, but to Neil."

"How does Neil feel about his mother and . . . you, for that matter?"

"He's told me that when he was younger, he used to wish that we'd stayed together as a family, but as he's gotten older, he's gotten more understanding. He realizes that his mother and I weren't good for each other." Gold sighed and sat for a moment. Then he looked up at her. "Neil likes you. He's told me that he thinks you're good for me."

Lacey was falling into his soft brown eyes again. It would be so easy to lean forward just a little bit – that would bring her into contact with him. She took a deep breath and pulled back.

 **A Real Test**

The next morning, along with the fresh red rose, there was a package. She opened it and found an old copy of _Pride and Prejudice._ It wasn't a first edition, but it was a vintage book and he'd stumbled upon it and thought she might like it, so he'd bought it for her, he explained in a rush.

"I think you might be ready for a real test," she told him.

"Like when I sent you into my mother's card playing coven?" he asked.

"Something like that. My father has let me know that he wants to start his own business and he's meeting with David Nolen this morning. He's asked that you be present – since you're the one that ruined his life and all." She shrugged. "I really think that he's wanting your advice, but doesn't know how to properly ask for it."

"What business is he starting up?" Gold asked her.

Lacey closed her eyes for a moment before sharing, "Well, apparently Mr. Nolen advised him to think about what he likes to do and build on this."

"Your father likes drinking and talking," Gold said.

"Exactly." Lacey agreed. "Should be an interesting business meeting."

He was not looking forward to the meeting. He felt he was on decent enough terms with Lacey's father, but he also felt the guy was a dumbass redneck. And, as for David Nolen, well, he was a nice guy, but Gold didn't think he would be particularly savvy at dealing with unscrupulous folks.

He'd wanted to down a half-bottle of good whiskey before showing up, but Lacey had insisted he show up sober. _She could be a mean woman sometimes._ She'd also made him wear a suit, one of his Armani's.

She looked him over. "You sure can wear a suit."

"It's just a suit." He wasn't sure why she seemed to take her time looking him over.

"Yeah, but you make it look fine. Now, you're going to be one of the two adults at this meeting – the other being Mr. Nolen. You need to help my dad make some sound decisions. You've got the business skills and experience to help my dad get things right."

"But what if I don't want to," he complained.

"This is all part of you becoming . . . pleasant," she reiterated before she sent him off with a quick kiss on the cheek.

 **Moe's New Partner**

He'd sat down, taking a chair to one side of Nolen. He stood up to greet Mr. French when Lacey's father lumbered into the room.

"Gold," the other man greeted him. "Thanks fur comin'. I've done asked fur me new business partner t' come in fur this meetin'. Seems like he's runnin' a bit late."

"Who is this new business partner?" Nolen asked.

"Oh, someone I've known fur a while, off an' on. He knows lots 'bout bus'ness an' stuff."

"Does this man have any verifiable credentials?" Nolen asked French while they were waiting.

"Whut?"

"Is he really what he says he is?" Gold translated.

"Well, yeah . . . I mean . . . I guess so," Maurice had evidently never considered things beyond their face value.

"We should have the man vetted," Gold said to Nolan who wrote himself a note.

"Now, how does this 'partnership' work?" Gold asked.

"Well, I'm th' idea man an' he's th' executioner."

"What? Did you meet this man at a bar?" Gold asked, curious about how this partnership had launched.

"How'd ya know? I did. Got to talkin'. 'Magine my surprise when I found out who he wuz."

"And just who was he?" Gold asked.

And, at that moment,the fourth man entered the room.

"Sorry, I'm running late," the man said in a smooth, cultured voice.

Gold had frozen. _How in seven hells had this happened?_

"Rumple!" His father greeted him exuberantly. "Fancy meetin' you here. I was totally pole-axed when French here said how he knew you. Fortuitous. Most fortuitous."

"Yeah . . . fortuitous," Gold muttered, wanting more than anything else to vault out the room. _Had Lacey known about this?_

Peter Gold was a con man, a mediocre, mostly unsuccessful con man. Gold knew that his father could exude charm when it was in his favor, but he also knew that nothing, absolutely nothing, that his father said could be trusted.

"See you're out of rehab," he remarked quietly.

"Better than jail, I can attest. I'd gotten a little problem there, just a little one mind you, with using . . . uh . . . stuff. Completely straightened out now."

"I'm sure," Gold said tightly.

"Yeah," French nodded in agreement. "I been knowin' Pete here fur a while an' while I wuz still mullin' on what t' do wid all me money, Nolen here suggested I follow my heart – great advice that – whut did I like to do more than anythin'. I wuz puzzlin' over it, ya' know whut I mean? Pete suggested that frum whut he'd knowd 'bout me, I liked drinkin' an' talkin' more than anythin'. So, we come up wid this idear t' do city tours wid a platform bus an' we'd serve booze, an' he an' me, we'd give 'em a talk. Lotsa tourists in this town, ya know."

"Isn't this like the pubcycle?" Gold asked.

"Somewhat, but you have to bring your own refreshments for the pubcycle," his father explained. "And they don't give you any tour guide information."

"An' ya gotta pedal," French added. "With us, you jus' haffta ride an' drink an' listen."

"Mr. French does have a flair for storytelling," Nolen shared with Gold. "And he has a remarkable and unexpected knowledge of the city, many backstories on different businesses and such."

"We thought we'd start small, with one bus, which we'll have to refurbish for the job. We'd also want to hire a driver, but that shouldn't be a major concern," his father had pulled out a notebook and was going down his list of things they needed to do. "And French here is working on his spiel, trying different versions out."

"What would your role be, Father?" Gold asked the man.

"Me? Oh, I'll be taking care of the business end of things, special licensing, financing, advertising, booking tours – with Mr. Nolan's inestimable assistance, of course."

"Mr. Nolan will need to be meeting with you once a week . . ." Gold began.

"Once a week?" his father interrupted. "How about once a month?"

"Once a week," Gold insisted. He turned to Nolan, "Let me be clear. You will need to crawl up his arse with a flashlight once a week. You will need to go over his books with a fine-tooth comb and make him account for every penny. Bills and payments should match exactly . . . and be timely. Oh, make sure any driver salaries that he takes out are going to real drivers and not into his pocket."

"Oh, son, you wound me," his father said in dismay. "All that is behind me."

"Well, it could catch up to you any day now." Gold had had enough. "Mr. French, good luck with this venture. Be careful working with this old fox," Gold warned him. He turned back to Nolen, "Is there anything else you need from me?" _He had to get out of here before his head exploded or he did something that he might regret . . . or get him arrested._

Nolan shook his head. "Thank you. I'll be following your advice," he called to Gold as he walked out the door.

It would be too much to hope for that he would get out of the accountant's office before anything else happened.

His father followed him. _Of course, his father followed him._

"It's good to see you, son," he began.

"Father, you understand if I'm not equally thrilled to see you," he told the man.

"I do. I completely understand. I've let you down too many times. You and your mother. Speaking of your mother . . . ."

"Last I heard, she was dabbling in a lesbian relationship. I guess she wanted a change of pace."

"A lesbian relationship," his father repeated. "Interesting. I wonder if . . . "

"I don't think they'll want you watching," he said to his father.

His father sighed, "A man can hope." Gold turned to leave but then his father spoke again. "I'd like to have lunch with you sometime."

Gold closed his eyes. He really detested this man. But he knew Lacey would tell him that he could at least have lunch with him. _He should at least have lunch with him_.

"You have my number. Give me a call and I'll try to get you on my calendar." He walked off but paused a moment, "And good luck on this business venture." _There, he'd been nice. Lacey would be proud of him._

 **Bail Him Out of Jail**

"My God. My father and your father." He insisted on a glass of whiskey when he got home. He sat on the sofa in the library and Lacey had come over to sit next to him.

"I had no idea my father had taken on a partner, much less that the partner was your father," Lacey told him. "I would have told you, please believe me."

He looked into her deep blue eyes and _what choice did he have -_ he believed her.

"They're in business together. I keep expecting to look out and see a red sky and hear Gabriel's horn. The world is turning upside down."

"It is rather terrifying. Are they going to do too much damage?" she'd asked.

"Doubtful. Nolan's looking over their shoulders. I suspect this will all end up as a business loss on your father's tax forms. And my father, as he always does, will lose interest or be distracted and will wander off into something else. So, this partnership shouldn't last long."

"You did well, I think, very well. No police intervention. No restraining orders."

Gold bit his lip and then took a deep drink. "My father wants to have lunch with me," he told Lacey.

Lacey waited for him to share more but when nothing more came forth, she spoke, "You don't want to, do you?"

"I hate that sonofabitch, Lacey. I really hate him. He was abusive, physically and emotionally. He let me know how unwanted I was, how disappointed in me he was, how he wished I'd never been born."

"Oh, Rumple," Lacey told him, her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. My family wasn't the most functional, but I knew that my mother loved me unconditionally."

"My mother . . ." he started. "She let me know that she didn't want anyone to know I was her son. Neither one of my parents ever let me know they loved me . . . and, I think . . . it was because they didn't."

He shook his head, "I just can't bring myself to think that he really wants a relationship with me. It's more like that he wants to be sure I'll bail him out of jail next time he gets arrested."

Lacey blinked back tears. _This poor man. She ached for the abandoned little boy inside of him._

"Lacey, will you think less of me, if . . . if I don't want to have a relationship with my father?"

"It's not my place. I'm just concerned how this is eating you up inside." She hesitated. "You know, they say that forgiveness is not so much for the person who is forgiven but for the person who offers the forgiveness. It takes away the power, takes away the control these people have over your life, if you can forgive them."

"I don't know that I'm ready for that," he confessed. He looked at her and she could see tears pooling in his eyes. "Am I a bad person? Am I going to hell because I can't forgive the bastard because I don't want a relationship with the sonofabitch?"

"Oh no," she assured him. "If you aren't ready, if you aren't able to forgive your father or make a connection with him, I can't judge you for that. To be honest, I can't imagine what you had to grow up with."

He nodded. "I just feel that if I could only be strong enough, brave enough, I could get over this and deal with it and move on."

"That's not how it works. And you are one of the bravest men I've ever met."

He snorted. "Lacey . . . no, I'm not."

"You are," and she leaned over and kissed him gently on his cheek. He turned his head and slowly, slowly, the kiss made its way over to his mouth. And then his arms were around her and she was pulling him to her. The kiss deepened, her mouth opening to his and her eyes closing. She realized she was clinging to him.

The kiss ended, and she felt shy.

"Come with me," she whispered. "Come up to my room."

He didn't say anything right away. Then, "My room," he told her.

"Sure," she agreed. _She would agree to anything at the moment._ She got up and he followed her up the stairs.

He stopped right before they stepped into his bedroom. "We are . . . we are going to . . . "

Lacey nodded, "Yes if you want."

"You aren't doing this because you're feeling sorry for me, are you? This isn't a . . . what? a pity-fuck?"

"Oh God, no," she managed to get out. And she felt him drag her across the threshold and over to his bed. He pushed her down and very nearly pounced on her.


	14. This Changes Everything

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 14**

 **This Changes Everything**

The room was dark, the thick curtains shutting out the dim light of the winter early evening.

Lacey's world had dwindled to the near senses of touch and smell.

She barely was able to get out a gasp when she felt his weight upon her and then he was kissing her. He was lying on top of her and she had automatically _a primordial response_ shifted so that he was lying between her legs. And yes, yes, yes, he was so kissing her and it was really, really good. She wrapped herself around him, her arms and her legs, and began to kiss him back.

Within the confines of his billowing bed, she felt him, his hands warm against her skin, stripping off her clothing, removing her blouse first. He was slowly, between kisses, peeling off her clothes, next pulling off her skirt, leaving her only in her shoes, her panties, and her bra. Lacey hadn't been quite as successful with getting his suit off the man – it was like armor, fitting him snugly, made for him. She had managed to get the jacket unbuttoned and helped him slip it off his shoulders, but he was already so far ahead of her.

'Wait," she managed to gasp out, and he immediately stopped.

"Too fast? Am I going too fast?" he asked. "I can slow up." He seemed alarmed.

"It's not that, Professor," she told him, giggling. "I just want to get your clothes off of you."

He pulled back and ended up kneeling on the bed. "I do think, that in light of what we're about to do, that you should call me Rum or Rumple."

"But calling you 'Professor' is kinda hot, don't you think?" she asked with a grin.

"Perhaps," he agreed. He was sitting back on his heels. "Getting back to the matter at hand, do you want me to take my clothes off myself . . . or do you want to do it?" He gave her his slow, sensual smile that always made her insides twitch.

"Oh my," she pulled herself up to sit next to him. "I want to do it."

Her answer delighted him. He sat still while she fiddled with the knot of his silk tie, pulling it off from around his neck, _all the while he trailed his fingers down her face._ And then Lacey fumbled with the buttons on his vest, finally getting these undone and he helped her remove the vest, shrugging his arms out of it _while now his fingers were entwined in her hair, stroking her head, massaging her scalp_ and Lacey shivered with how truly excellent he was making her feel. With an effort, she refocused and then began to fidget with the buttons on his shirt, her fingers nervous and shaking. _His hands were on her arms now, tracing down and then ghosting over to her breasts._ Eventually, finally, she got the buttons undone and she raked the sleeves down his arms and jerked the shirt off the man.

"I'm nowhere near as pretty as you," he told her, apologetically.

She looked at him and he caught his breath – her eyes were vibrant and glistening. "Yes, yes, you are," she assured him. "Pants?"

"I'll take care of them," he told her, his movements fluid in the heat and the darkness of the room and he slipped the belt from his waist and, not breaking eye contact, he slid the zipper down and then tugged off the offending garment. He was now clad only in his black boxers.

"Damn," Lacey breathed out.

"You owe a dollar to the swear jar," he told her as he reached around to unfasten her little brassiere. She caught it before it slipped off her body, crossing an arm in front of herself.

"Lacey," he said gently. "You must know I think you're beautiful."

She dropped her eyes. She felt his hand on her arm, pulling it gently, yet brooking no resistance, away from her body.

"You're perfect," he told her, and she had to close her eyes to protect herself from the heat of his gaze. He was touching her now, his fingers, his long, clever fingers tracing around her breast. He lifted her as he bent over to feed the nipple into his mouth. She felt the tug as he suckled and her entire body responded with tingling and a shiver. Now, he pushed her down so that he was lying nearly on top of her again.

He released her from his long kiss, and she felt his mouth drop down to her stomach, now pressing little butterfly kisses onto her. His hands were on her hips and were holding her still. He had stopped for a moment and she managed to open her eyes.

"There you are," he said. He was looking up at her. "You . . . you are on some sort of . . . uh . . . you have some protection? I know we didn't take any precautions when you first came to me."

She nodded, "I was. I am. When I was working as a masseuse, I got an implant, even though I wasn't . . . I wasn't . . . uh . . . involved . . . with anyone. I was afraid . . . in the job I was doing, I was afraid that something might happen and . . . I didn't want to end up pregnant."

"You were always a smart girl. You should know that I haven't been with a woman, well, since you . . . and before that, it had been a while. I've was checked after my last . . . uh . . . liaison and I'm clean."

"That's good . . . right? I guess . . . it sounds good. We're both good to go," she said breathlessly.

"Uh hum . . ." he muttered. "Good to go. Yes, good to go." He smiled at her, "I'm gonna show you so much about your body," he told her. "I'm going to make you scream."

"Is that a threat?" she asked, smiling back at him.

"It's a promise," he replied. "Now, relax, stay on your back."

"What if I want to be on top?" she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, "Another time." And he reached up and notched his thumbs into the sides of her panties, pulling them down her legs. He then let his hands trace up her legs – slowly, very slowly. Then he traced back down her legs, just as slowly.

"You're so smooth, so soft," he muttered his appreciation. "And you smell good." His hands were warm, his fingers sure and strong. Then she felt his lips on her ankle.

"Oh," she reflexively tried to pull back, but he held her in place.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Lacey. I'm going to give you pleasure," he repeated his promise.

"All right," she could hear her voice trembling. _She knew she was giving herself over into his power, but she trusted him. He would take care of her._

She closed her eyes and allowed the darkness to again wash over her. Everything was about touch now, the sensations her body was feeling, the sensations he was giving to her. She could feel his hands, his fingers, his lips on her leg, slowly moving up her leg.

Now he was up to her thighs. There were sounds, his murmuring voice, letting her know how beautiful he thought she was, how sweet she tasted to him, how brave he believed she was.

She pulled back as he came closer to the juncture between her thighs.

"My Lacey, my sweet, brave woman, now are you going to be shy? I thought you the bravest person I'd ever met."

"I . . . this is just . . . I've never . . . " she had opened her eyes and was trying to explain to him that this might be too much. He was too much.

He stopped for a moment and in the dim light, she could see he was studying her, watching her, gauging her. She felt his hand on her mound.

"I'm going to touch you here, Lacey. I want to do this, very much and I . . . I think you will like it." And now she could feel his fingers, gently massaging her. "Now, close your eyes again. Trust me."

She heard herself as she breathed out a great sigh. "All right," she agreed and closed her eyes.

And once again she was devoured by the darkness, in a pool of sensation and tactile stimulation. Every nerve was alive, hypersensitive, open to tiny nuances. She felt _everything . . ._ his lips . . . _his tongue_ . . . his fingers.

And he was gentle, but she couldn't help but gasp and pull back when she felt a finger slip inside of her. His tongue was active, right in _exactly_ the right place, flicking back and forth, then lapping, then flicking again. She had never felt anything like this. She thought he might have put a second finger inside of her, but it was now his tongue against her feminine nub that was claiming all of her attention.

This was more than she could bear. Her hands were caught in the sheets, pulling on the soft cotton weaving.

It was a tightness, a hard coiling within her, tightening, tightening and she had tensed her legs and knew she was lifting her body to him, to allow him greater access. His arms were now threaded under her thighs and his hands rested on her stomach as he lay between her legs.

She whimpered, then screamed, a very unladylike scream, as she abruptly _and unexpectedly_ convulsed. He persisted with his attentions as she rode through the spasms of pleasure, licking at her, swallowing what he could of the sweet nectar that seeped from her. Things blurred for her and then, she slowly, very slowly, became aware that he was still resting between her legs.

As her vision returned, she caught his eye. He was smirking _\- she supposed he had earned the right to be satisfied with himself._

"Glad you enjoyed Act One," he told her and he reached down to divest himself of his boxers. And he slid up her body so that now they were face-to-face. He was lying on top of her, careful to support his weight on his elbows.

"That . . . was . . . fantastic," she managed to get out.

"For me, too," he told her. His fingers caught in her curls and strands of her hair seemed to twirl themselves around his fingers. He stroked the side of her face, pulling her hair off of her cheeks. "I still can't believe that you're allowing me to do . . . to do this."

"I told you. I'm in love with you," she reminded him.

"It's hard for me to believe that. I'm so not worthy of your love."

"Yes, yes, you are," she assured him.

He shook his head. "I can't even express how much I love you. You are . . . you are like this light in this ocean of darkness. I . . . you make me want to be a better person."

And he pulled back a moment, his hand dropping to position himself.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he ordered her. "Hold on to me." She complied, and she felt his arms reach up under her arms and his fingers brace on her shoulders.

She sucked in air as she felt him surge into her and her hands, her fingers clung to his shoulder.

"Oh," she couldn't stop herself from crying out as the air rushed out of her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, stilling himself.

"Yeah, it's a bit . . . strange, feeling you inside of me. Nice, but strange." _And that was the truth. She felt stretched, almost uncomfortably so, but also close, so close to this man, as close as she could ever get to another person._

"It feels nice to me too. You're very . . . uh . . . Don't wiggle," he spoke sharply.

"I'm trying to get more comfortable," she told him.

"Well, stop wiggling. I won't be able to finish properly," he warned her.

Lacey suddenly realized how much power she had in their relationship. She could make this powerful, capable, fiercely intelligent man just completely, _she cleaned up a vulgar expression she recalled from her masseuse days,_ she could make him lose 'it.' With just a smile or a touch or a little cry, she had power, even control, in their relationship. It was a heady feeling.

He lent himself to slow, leisurely thrusting, pulling almost out, then sliding back into her, making sure that he was hitting her in just the right spot, and _damn,_ she realized that _this time_ she was the one who was losing it. And now that she knew the path, it was a quicker journey for her. She somehow managed to plant little kisses along the man's neck, but each time he pushed himself against her, she whimpered, a soft groan. She was pushing against him as she could and closed her eyes again, the coiling starting, tightening, going so much faster this time.

She heard him whisper, "Come for me, Lacey. Come for me."

His voice filled her head, he was pleading with her, he was ordering her, and when she broke, it was far more intense than anything she'd felt before, like riding a wave that crested higher and hit harder than anything else that she'd been through. _She might have screamed again._

Somehow in the flowing tide of passion, she felt him. He groaned and released himself into her. She could feel the heat of his spray as he spilled himself.

They both clung to each other, a bead of sweat trickling down his face.

"I don't want to leave you," he told her. "I want to stay like this, joined with you for the rest of the night."

"Maybe we can do it again?" she suggested.

"Oh woman, I will need a little time. As luscious and as attractive as you are, I will need, well a little while, before I can . . . uh . . . perform again."

"Well, can we cuddle?" she asked him.

He slipped out of her and he rolled to one side, pulling her up against him. "Oh yes, please, I want to hold you, hold on to you, so you don't disappear."

He kissed her along her neck. He felt her wiggling against him. _Maybe it wouldn't take as long as he thought to . . . uh . . . perform again._

But, instead, they both dozed off, comfortable and comforted in each other's embrace.

 **Early Morning**

It was early morning when Lacey pushed him from his side onto his back.

"I want to be on top," she told him.

Barely awake, even considering that this was perhaps yet another dream, he managed to murmur agreement and helped her position herself on top of him. He was ready – he'd already found her proximity kept his interest raised up to at least half-staff and with her eager efforts to further interest him, his body had responded with a full salute.

It took Lacey a moment to lower herself onto him, giving him a most delicious sensation of warmth and welcome. Then she started to move, up and down, up and down. Yes, this was very good and the view, for him, was the best – her body and her face visible in the dim red lights of the electronics that dotted the room. He dropped a hand between them, to give her more sensations as she began to grind against him. He began to push up as she dropped down. With his free hand, he would reach up to caress her, her face, her neck, her breasts, her stomach and then . . . and then, he would start again. Lacey's pacing increased, and she put her head back, closing her eyes.

God, he felt her spasm around him, tightening, teasing, nearly milking him and he let go, answering her beckoning, giving himself up to her.

She collapsed onto him and almost immediately dropped off to sleep. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand in her soft, silky hair.

"Lacey," he whispered, realizing that she probably was too far gone to hear him. "I love you. Please don't leave me."

He heard, barely heard, her reply, "uh hmm."

He was content to just hold her until finally sleep caught up with him too, and he dropped off.

 **Morning Light**

Lacey woke first, the light insistently shining in through the gap between the window and the curtain. She found herself on her side, snuggled into the man's side, her leg draped across him and an arm thrown across his chest. She wanted to just lie there, cuddling and caressing, but she knew there was too much day before her. She stirred and immediately, he stirred.

"I guess we have to get up," he whispered. "Although I would much prefer to stay here."

"Me too," she told him. She sat up, suddenly shy in the morning light. "This . . . this changes everything, doesn't it?"

"God, I hope so," he raised his arms and put his hands behind his head. "I'd be devastated to find out that you were using me for a night a casual sex. I'm not that kind of guy."

"Good for you. I'm not that kind of girl."

He watched as she wrapped the sheet around herself. "You know, if we'd lived hundreds of years ago, and I had seen you on the street, I think I would have stolen you away from your father and locked you in my dungeon."

"Oh, you would have had a dungeon?" she had to ask.

"Well yeah, I would have lived in a castle. So, yes. I think I would have had a dungeon."

"And would you have pressed your advantage with me, an innocent maid?" she asked, curious.

He thought a moment. "I think . . . I think I would have wanted to, but I would have seen you as too precious, too perfect, too valuable to sully with my baser attentions." He shook his head, "But I think it's so much better this way, how we are now. This way we're together and I know you want to be here. And that is so much better. You know, Lacey, I don't just want you in my bed. I want you in my life," he told her soberly.

Lacey smiled at him. "I want to be here, you have to know that. I love you so much – that's why I decided to come back – to give you one more chance, one more opportunity to let me in."

"Thank you. I don't know that I deserved another chance," he had to smile back at her. He spoke hesitantly, "I . . . I don't want to rush you into anything else. I mean . . . I . . . " he looked away. "Let me know when you want . . . when you need more from me, please."

"Well, I think . . . not rushing, going slowly, is a good idea . . . for both of us," she told him.

"Well, my mother already thinks I'm shagging you. I don't want to add any more fuel to that fire," he told her.

"My friend, Ruby, thinks that too," Lacey confirmed. "It's not that I'm ashamed of being with you or anything . . . . It's . . . it's . . ." she struggled to find the right words.

"It's private," he told her. "It's our business and no one else's."

Lacey nodded. "Yes. It's intimate and personal and . . . private."

"And no one else's business," he repeated.

Lacey reluctantly got out of his bed, the sheet wrapped around herself. "I'm going to grab a quick shower and go down for breakfast. You'll come and join me . . . for breakfast?"

He'd thought, at first, that she might have been asking him to join her in the shower, but then realized this might be moving too fast – after all, she wasn't even comfortable walking around naked in front of him. He had to squelch all the ideas that came to mind when he speculated on showering with her, her luscious little body wet and slick and soapy and . . ." He took a deep breath. Another time, yes, another time.

"Yes, I'll join you for breakfast," he told her.

 **Disappointed**

Lacey was disappointed that he didn't ask to join her in the shower, but recognized that he was being overly-cautious and likely thinking of her tender sensibilities. But it was pleasant idea to contemplate.

Perhaps another time.

 **Breakfast**

Jefferson was sitting in the dining room when Lacey came downstairs. He watched her drop a couple of dollars into the swear jar as he buttered his toast.

"Viktor has got the surgery shift again?" she asked him, fixing her plate from the buffet and sitting down.

"Oh yes. It really puts a kink in our love life, but we survive. His work is very important to him and I . . . I have to respect that. It's part of who he is."

Lacey looked at her friend. "You two make adjustments for each other, don't you?"

"You want a love affair, a marriage, even a friendship, to work, you have to. Compromise is the name of the game. Viktor certainly cuts me some slack on some of my mad habits."

"You have mad habits?" she asked, amused.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on now, Lacey. How long have you known me? I'm overly fussy about my clothes and my wine . . . and my friends, for that matter."

"I would have said those are all endearing personal quirks, Jefferson, not mad habits."

"You . . . are a jewel," and Jefferson toasted her with his orange juice. "To be able to accept people for who they truly are – it's a gift. Rumple has that, well, whenever he actually gives a damn about a person, he accepts them for who they are."

"Yes," Lacey had to agree. "Rumple is able to do that."

Lacey lent her attention to her plate, to her eggs, grits and hash browns and didn't catch the sharp look that Jefferson gave her at her use of Rumple's first name. He saw her look up when Gold came into the room, failing to suppress her gentle smile when she saw the man.

"Morning, all. Jefferson, I take it that you're joining us because Viktor is doing slicing and dicing this morning," Gold spoke to his friend.

"Yes, yes, he is." Jefferson looked closely at his good friend and then looked back at Lacey. He watched them, his gray eyes catching every aspect of how the two communicated, how they looked at each other, how their bodies would lean in and then pull away from each other.

Gold fixed himself a hearty breakfast, instead of his usual buttered toast, and sat down. Without speaking, he handed Lacey the puzzle section from the newspaper. Lacey gave him a murmured thanks and took the paper without looking at Gold. Gold took a drink of his tea.

"You two had sex," Jefferson announced.


	15. Many Talents

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 15**

 **Many Talents**

"You two had sex," Jefferson announced.

Gold spewed his tea, "Jefferson!" Lacey covered her mouth and giggled.

"Oh, come on! I understand if you want to keep this a secret, especially you, Rumple, but I'm your friend – I love the both of you - and I've got to tell you that I'm thrilled," Jefferson told them.

"But . . . how . . . what . . . how did you know?" Lacey asked him.

"Do you want the reasons chronologically or alphabetically?" Jefferson asked.

They both sat without responding, just looking at him, and Jefferson continued. "Lacey comes in and the woman is glowing. I mean, you're a beautiful woman, but this morning you had outdone yourself. Then you put money in the swear jar – you never swear, so I knew something big had happened. And you called Rumple, 'Rumple.' Lacey, I've only ever heard you call the man, 'Professor Gold,' 'Professor,' or, when you were angry with him, 'Gold.' _Something_ had changed in your relationship."

Jefferson sat back and looked at Gold. "And you. You come in and, oh my god, you're smiling. I have _never_ seen you smile before noon. You, who normally get dry toast and tea for breakfast, you pile on the lumberjack special - as if you had worked up a hearty appetite."

Jefferson shook his head, "And let's talk about how you two are interacting with each other! Good grief! You won't look at each other, _but_ you are continually looking at each other, little shy glances, blushes, soft eyes, and you," he looked at Gold, "you, hand her the puzzle page before you've solved the first Jumble."

"What else am I to think?" Jefferson asked them, folding his arms. The two looked at each other.

Lacey was giving Gold her shy smile when she answered Jefferson, "Yes, we did, and it was wonderful."

"And it's about time," Jefferson declared.

"But I'm not sure we're at a point that we want to advertise it," Gold told him sourly.

"You're a private guy, I get that. And your personal life is . . . well, personal. I can keep a confidence," Jefferson assured them both. "But I want you to know that I'm very happy for you. I think this will be good for both of you."

"I think so too," Gold replied.

"Now totally changing the subject," Jefferson looked at Lacey, "What do we have planned for this morning?"

Lacey shared that she had been thinking about going out to scout out costume ideas for the big Valentine's Day Gala. She would welcome Jefferson's input and the two set out together.

"You know he's taking a big chance on you," Jefferson told her once they were in the car. "I didn't think he would ever allow anyone in. He was so broken after his last affair fell apart and then when you left him, I was really concerned about him."

"He's changed, Jefferson. Well, maybe not changed, but there's another side of himself, another face, that he's showing, that he's comfortable showing."

"To you, maybe," Jefferson confirmed.

"How did you two meet?" Lacey asked him as they pulled into the first costume shop.

"Oh, it was right after Milah had left him and he was on a serious bender. He had wandered into a bar he'd not been in before. And . . . ahem . . . it just happened to be a bar that catered to a certain type of customer."

"A gay bar?" Lacey confirmed.

"I was unattached at the time and this was all totally before Viktor. I thought Rumple looked very dangerous and very delicious, both at the same time, you know what I mean?"

"I know," Lacey agreed.

"Uhmmmm, I guess you do," Jefferson told her. "Anyway, I picked him up."

"Really! How . . . how did that work out?"

"Not too good," Jefferson shared. "As you might imagine, our Rumple is a one-trick pony and . . ."

"Ohhh," Lacey interrupted. "I wouldn't say that."

"I'm talking about gender preferences, but sometime, you must tell me all about his pony tricks. Anyway, as I was saying, we'd gone up to his apartment – it was closer – and he was playing the gracious host. I guess, I was a good deal less drunk than he was and I realized that he was actually _being_ the gracious host and not the would-be paramour. I was ready to excuse myself, wanting to avoid an awkward confrontation when he realized what had happened."

"Oh my," Lacey remarked. "Was he angry?"

"No, he was grateful. He told me that after his ugly divorce, he was happy to find that anyone found him sexually attractive and while he couldn't reciprocate, he was, nonetheless, flattered. Not interested, mind you, but flattered. We spent the rest of the evening, drinking more and finding out how much we had in common and, we've been fast friends ever since."

They were actively looking through the racks in "Game of Pretties," an upscale costume shop while Jefferson shared this story.

"Amazing," Lacey told him. "That could have gone any number of directions."

Jefferson stopped looking through the racks of clothing, "It could have. I guess it was just meant to be. Now, what did you have in mind for the Gala?"

"I don't know. We talked about a few ideas. How fancy is this Gala thing?"

"You've met Rumple's mom. Do you think she does anything by halves? It's all out."

"Should we get individual costumes or go as a couple?"

"A couple, definitely a couple – there is the whole Valentine's Day theme going on. If you _have_ to go as a single, you don't go," Jefferson told her.

"So, do you think that Milah and Killian will be there?" she asked slowly.

Jefferson looked up. "Are you worried about seeing Killian again?"

"Killian I can handle. I know his weaknesses. It's Milah I'm more concerned with."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He brings her up now and again and I can't help but wonder how he really feels about her."

"Do you think he still has feelings for her?"

"I don't know, I guess, maybe. I mean, she left him, right?"

Jefferson nodded.

"He grieved. He felt rejected. All right then," she swallowed and began her confession. "I don't think Milah and Killian are in a good place and I can't help but wonder if she's reconsidering having ditched Rumple."

"And you're afraid that if she whistles, that he'll throw you over and run back into her embrace?"

Lacey bit her lower lip. "Yes."

Jefferson gave her a quick hug. "My darling girl. I've known him a long time. I don't see that happening."

Lacey sniffed. "All right. You're probably right."

"Probably?! Of course, I'm right. I'm always right," Jefferson admonished her.

Lacey sniffed and nodded. "So, what are you and Viktor going as?"

"Well, as always, Viktor and I take this very seriously and we've had several conversations about it. We've decided on Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

"Are you Sherlock?"

"No, we decided to go against type and I'll be the Doctor this time. I'll be a flamboyant, out-going, perfectly brilliant Doctor Watson. Viktor will go as a dour Sherlock."

"Sounds lovely."

"Perhaps. I'm not sure if it's good or bad, but I already have enough in my own wardrobe to bedeck myself as the good doctor. I'm here to look for Viktor's cloak and hat. We'll have to pick up a pipe somewhere."

"Shouldn't be too hard." "Now how about you and Rumple? What costumes have you talked about?" "I mentioned Beauty and the Beast to him," she shared. "I don't know if he'll really go for it."

"Well, you certainly can lock down the Beauty role, my dear," Jefferson told her graciously. "But I can't see him wearing a furry head."

"Neither do I. Perhaps we could do something else to beast him up. I mean, it doesn't have to be a literal animal, but maybe something . . . I don't know . . . different."

Lacey was standing next to the make-up and body paint section. She picked up a greenish-gold concoction. "Would this look like scales if it went on a person?" she asked.

Jefferson looked it over. "Maybe. What are you thinking?"

Lacey sighed. "This is far out and I have no idea if I can ever convince Rumple to do it, but . . . what if he was made up . . . kinda like a reptile, with crocodile skin – they're pretty scary, kinda beastly," she said unsure of herself.

"Hmmm," Jefferson considered her idea. "Perhaps, we could glue on some claws and get a nappy wig." He grinned at her. "That could totally work."

"Yeah, then I need to get him into some leather pants," Lacey told him.

"With a silk shirt," added Jefferson. "Any ideas how you're going to get him in those pants?"

Lacey shook her head, "I'm afraid it may require subterfuge and a game of pool."

 **Dinner**

That evening, without Jefferson joining them, Lacey and Rumple shared dinner, a quiet dinner, sitting in candlelight, eating off fine china and drinking from clear, cut crystal.

"It's not too much, is it?" Rumple apologized when she came in from her shopping.

"Oh my, no," she told him. "It's lovely. I just wasn't expecting anything . . . "

"I had it catered from Curaté. They sent over some of their best dishes and I pulled out one of my favorite wines." He wasn't looking at her.

"This is wonderful. I would have been happy with canned soup and a grilled sandwich."

"Well," he paused.

"What?"

"I have an ulterior motive," he admitted. He held out her chair and then sat down across from her.

"Yes," she invited him to go on.

"While you and Jefferson were out gadding about, I had a meeting with Nolan, your father and . . . my father."

"Oh, my. How's the new business going?" she asked.

"Surprisingly well. At least, no one has discovered how my father is skimming off the till just yet. Your father seems very happy, at least. And apparently, they made money during the last month."

Lacey nodded, "That is pleasantly surprising."

Rumple hesitated. "After the meeting, my father . . . he asked again about having lunch with me."

Lacey didn't say anything. She waited.

"I . . . I agreed to meet with him . . . tomorrow in fact," he glanced up at her.

"You think you're ready for this?"

"No, but I've decided that it's not going to go away." He looked down at this plate for a moment. "Could you . . . would you please come with me?"

"You want me to come to lunch with you and your father?" she asked.

"Please," he asked. "I just can't imagine lunch between us going well. Hell, I can't imagine it going along without one of us assaulting the other, unless there is someone else there to . . . "

"Buffer the situation?" she suggested.

"Exactly," he agreed. "You will come?"

"Of course. Tomorrow, you said?"

"Yes, please." He paused again. "And I should probably tell you a little about my father."

"How bad is he?"

"He'll hit on you, even if he's aware that you and I are a couple."

"I think I can handle that," Lacey told him.

"Oh, don't underestimate him. He can be absolutely charming. That's how he got my mother to drop her drawers."

"Well, she was a teenage girl and . . . " Lacey smiled at him. "she wasn't in love with someone else at the time."

Rumple looked at her, "Oh, yeah, yes. Yes. That might help."

Lacey looked around. "This is really nice," she told him, taking in the supper he'd ordered in. "I'm used to take-out being in a box or a bag. This is so much and it looks really good."

"It's not too much?" he asked again.

"No, not at all. But, you should know, I won't be expecting something like this every night. A box or a bag or even, cooking something here, would be fine. You, having supper with you, is plenty for me."

"You are a lot easier to please than my ex-wife."

"Please," Lacey told him.

He laughed, "I'm sorry. I should not . . . I cannot . . . compare you to my ex-wife. She was never satisfied with anything I did. You are nothing like my ex-wife."

"That's good to hear," Lacey muttered to herself.

He cleared his throat. "Lacey, listen. I wanted you to know that just because we . . . uh . . . we . . . uh . . . last night, we . . ."

Lacey waited.

"I'm not expecting that you're going to want to . . . uh . . . be with me again . . . like on . . . any kind of a regular basis."

"Why would I not want to be with you?" she asked, puzzled.

"Because . . . I'm . . . me," he said. "I mean I can understand getting carried away one time, but that doesn't mean you necessarily want to be . . . uh . . . "

"Carried away every night?" she suggested.

"Right," he agreed gratefully.

"Listen, Rumple," Lacey told him searching for the clearest words she could find. "I'm in love with you. I want to be with you. I'm hoping, I'm expecting, to sleep in your bed and have sex with you. In fact, I'm looking forward to having a lot of sex with you."

Rumple looked a bit dazed but nodded slowly. He didn't say anything.

"You are all right with that?" Lacey finally asked him.

"Yeah, yes. I'm getting there. It's just not something I ever expected to find . . . ever. You . . . I . . . never . . ."

Lacey shook her head. "You poor thing." _How much damage had his parents, his wife, his paramours done to him? The man had no clue . . . ._

"Really," he told her. "You are easily the best thing that's ever happened to me. And if you are sincere about wanting to have a lot of sex with me, I do have some ideas of some things we may want to try." And he gave her his slow, soft smile.

 **Lunch**

"Oh, I see you brought someone with you." Peter Gold stepped back and looked Lacey over. "Delighted, most delighted," he gave her a smile, very much like Rumple's smile. She got a quick glimpse of where Rumple's charm, when he chose to display it, came from.

"Yes, Father, this is Miss French. She's . . . my . . . she's a very good friend."

"And you felt you needed someone else here, so we wouldn't end up at each other's throat," surmised Peter. "Great idea." He held out the chair for Lacey to sit. "You must tell me, my dear, how you know my son."

"We met taking shelter from a sudden rainstorm," Lacey told him. "I overheard him give his address to someone and I later showed up at his apartment . . . with a proposition."

Peter gaped at her a second and then started laughing. "Excellent. A young woman with a sense of humor. You're doing better for yourself, son. Your previous women were all dull stick-up-their-arses."

"So glad you approve, Father," Rumple muttered.

Their server came by and both Rumple ordered whiskey. Lacey and Peter got iced teas.

"Not drinking?" Rumple asked his father.

"Part of my rehab. Avoiding all manner of temptations," his father explained.

"Please tell me you're not on Step Nine and trying to make amends."

"No, no, I wanted to see you just to . . . aw fuck . . . I don't know why I wanted to see you again. I can't imagine us ever having a real father-son relationship."

"That ship sailed a couple of decades ago," confirmed Rumple.

"And I don't expect forgiveness and sure as hell don't expect understanding. I'm not sure I understand myself."

"So, why are here? You need a kidney or something?"

"No, I've survived my youth and middle-age surprisingly intact. I just . . . felt . . . there was this emptiness where there should be . . . you."

Rumple finished his whiskey.

"I think I just want us to be able to be in the same room without blood and venom dripping from the walls," Peter added. "I want . . . " he struggled to find the right word.

"Tolerance?" suggested Lacey.

"Yeah," Peter was obviously grateful for the intrusion. "I just want us to be able to tolerate each other."

"You know my problem with this?" Rumple asked. "You have done and said all this before, many times before."

His father nodded. "And I always screw it up. You can't trust me not to screw things up."

"Got that right." Rumple was shaking his head. "I don't know. I really don't know," he admitted. "I'm going to have to think on this."

"I know I don't deserve yet another chance, but I'm asking for it anyway."

"I'll think on it," Rumple repeated.

"I can't ask for more than that."

 **Supper**

"That went better than I expected," Rumple told Lacey as she heated up some tomato soup and sliced some cheddar to set on some buttered bread. She began heating some more butter in an iron skillet.

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I was especially happy that he didn't make a pass at you."

Lacey shook her head. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you, but he kept trying to put his hand on my knee under the table." She set the sandwiches into the hot, melted butter.

"That sonofabitch!"

"It's all right. He kept his hands to himself after I jabbed my fork in his leg."

"Now that's my girl. I guess that's why he winced and got all quiet during the dessert course. I just thought he was getting sentimental and stupid."

"Just stupid. Now, where are you with your feelings regarding your father?"

"He seems to be making an effort, but, Lacey, he's made these gestures before. It's jailhouse religion. He's come clean, he's seen the light, he's a new person, but it never lasts. If I could trust that he's changed, really changed, it would be easier."

"Perhaps, you can agree to toleration as long as he seems to be walking the straight and narrow. It might help him stay sober," Lacey shared.

"Oh jeez, then I might end up being a factor in my father's rehabilitation. I don't know I want that burden."

Lacey finished frying up their cheese sandwiches and plated them.

"This is a nice sandwich," he complimented her. "Soft and gooey and crispy at the same time."

"It's the butter. When I was in my old motel room, I'd wrap them in foil and then I'd iron them. I can do peanut butter and banana sandwiches the same way."

"Impressive. Looks, intelligence and she can cook, too."

"Are you being a smart ass?" she asked him.

"Not at all," he assured her with his quiet smile. "I'm learning that you're a woman of many talents and I'm taking great delight in finding out more and more about you."

"What would you say to a game of pool tonight?" she asked him guilelessly.


	16. Better in Leather

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 16**

 **Better in Leather**

"We haven't played pool in a while," he remarked adding, "ever since I found out that you were a hustler."

"I have a few skills," she admitted, following him into the library.

"You are a pool shark," he insisted. "I've never seen anyone play the way you took down Killian." He considered. "If we're going to play, I need to do something to even the playing field."

"What are you thinking?"

"You take a drink between shots or should I say a shot between shots?"

"I couldn't stand that much whiskey. It tastes like brake fluid," she protested.

"Tequila then?"

"As long as it's not something like Everclear. Tequila will do," she agreed.

"What are we playing for?" he asked.

"We-ell," she hedged. "Usually it's something like a favor – nothing illegal, nothing immoral."

He considered. "I'm having a bad feeling about this. You know that I know you play really well and you were the one to suggest we play. Why would you do that?" He walked around the pool table and turned to look back at her. "You spent the morning with Jefferson looking at costumes."

The man was uncanny in his insights.

"All right, I found a costume. but I don't think you're going to be willing to wear it. I thought maybe I could win the pool game and . . . " Lacey dropped her eyes, feeling a little ashamed. "and I could ask you to wear what I had picked out as my favor."

"So, you do have a dark side, after all," Rumple murmured to himself. He smiled at her, "Let's go ahead and play and the winner will get to pick out the costumes."

"Really? You want to go ahead and play me, knowing I'd kinda planned to trick you?"

He poured her a shot of tequila. "Drink up, lady," he directed.

Lacey downed the first shot. Her eyes nearly crossed. This was top shelf stuff, very potent.

She was about to take her shot when Rumple came up next to her, standing very close. "Why don't you give me your panties?" he whispered softly.

"Sir?" she stood abruptly. _Had he just asked her for her panties?_

He held out his hand, waiting.

Lacey took a deep breath and reached up under her skirt. She pulled down her little wispy drawers and stepped out of them. She wadded them up and handed them to him. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled and he took them from her.

"Nice," he told her.

Lacey took more deep breaths, pulling herself together, re-focusing her energies.

She made the first shot easily. She took another drink. As she walked around the table to find her next shot, she couldn't help but notice that he had entwined the panties around his fingers. It took some effort, but she was able to make the next shot. He handed her a third drink.

By now she was beginning to struggle – the combination of potent alcohol and the constant awareness of her secret nakedness was beginning to affect her concentration.

She lined up her shot and, as she made the shot, she caught a brief glimpse of him raising her panties to his nose. She missed – an easy shot – she missed.

He handed her another shot glass and stepped up. "My turn."

The game went back and forth but, even to Lacey's tequila soaked brain, it was evident that Rumple was winning, playing one of the best games she could ever remember him playing.

"I think you've been holding out on me. Maybe I should have been having _you_ take a drink between shots," she mumbled after he had successfully made a particularly difficult banked shot.

"Well, perhaps, I'm not quite the inadequate player I've pretended to be. Not as good as sober-you, but not as poor as you've seen me be." He stopped a moment. "Why don't we call this a draw?"

"But then . . . who picks out the costumes? That was what all this was about."

"For you perhaps. Lacey, I'm perfectly willing to have you pick out the costumes. I'll wear whatever you want me to. I know you've put some thought and effort into the decision and . . . I trust you."

"You do?"

"I do. If we were to play on and I were to win, I will tell you now that my choice for a costume would have been whatever you had picked out."

Lacey sniffed and wavered. "Now I feel really bad that I'd thought of tricking you."

"But you didn't. You couldn't go through with it. You confessed your nefarious plan before anything happened. How can I not trust you?"

"Okay then, but if you really hate what I found, you promise me that you will tell me. Please? I don't want to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable."

"I promise, I'll tell you." He gently took her pool cue and replaced both hers and his into the cue hangers. "Now, I have another idea."

"Uh hum," she was feeling very woozy.

He walked back around her and shook his head. "I think we're going to need a couple of books to make this work."

"Any special books?"

"Thick, sturdy ones," he told her. "You're going to stand on them."

Lacey wasn't sure what the man was up to and watched as he stacked a couple of books in front of the pool table. "Stand on these." She complied. "Turn and face the pool table." She did so. "Bend over."

 _Oh, now she understood._

She felt him behind her, lifting her skirt, running his warm hand on her thighs, over her buttocks. "Tell me, this is all right with you," he said.

"Sure." As mellowed out as she was, she'd be agreeable to just about any suggestion the man might make.

He was leaning over her and she felt herself pressed against the rim of the pool table. "You know I kept imagining you . . . like this . . . while we were playing pool," he whispered.

"Is that why you called the game a draw?" she managed to ask, even as she felt his fingers caressing her, making sure she was ready.

"Pretty much. I couldn't wait, knowing I could have you like this."

She yelped as he entered her, the angle different, the pressure, the feel of him - different inside of her. He stilled against her and allowed her to adjust, his hand snaking around to touch her, separating his fingers so that there was ever so much lovely stimulation, even more so when he began to push against her, thrusting back and forth, trapping her body between his hips and his hands.

"Good god," she was too drunk to actively participate, but he didn't seem to mind, leading her, directing her, riding her so that she began to fall into that sensuous coiling, sliding path. He leaned over her and kissed her on the neck, drawing his tongue up to her ear. She turned her head, but the rim of the pool table prevented her from really bracing herself, from gaining any stability. She was only a warm, welcoming receptacle for his attentions.

It was so nice, over and over and over. He was murmuring the whole time, telling her how beautiful she was, how good she felt, how much he wanted her.

This one started slowly, the coil, wound tightly in her gut, letting go a notch at a time, the waves catching her and her entire body shaking as the pulsing hit her hard. He followed soon after and nearly fell on top of her, pinning her to the pool table.

"That was great. You were great," he told her, breathing heavily and slowly pulling himself up. He gently helped her up. She leaned into him.

"I'm a little drunk," she confessed.

"You are. What say I help you up the stairs and into bed?"

"Okay," she nodded. _He was going to take her to bed._ "You're the nicest man I've ever met."

"You _are_ drunk," he told her, helping her step off the books and guiding her along.

"And that was a really nice orgasm," she let him know as she began the process of climbing the stairs.

"For me too," he told her. "I'm thinking we may want to go for doing it in every room of this apartment."

"And the deck," she suddenly brightened up.

"Maybe, when it's summer and very dark," he agreed reluctantly. "Public sex has never been a particular kink of mine."

"What are some of your particular kinks?" she managed to ask as they stepped into his . . . their bedroom.

"Oh darling, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm always up for good old fashioned love-making and occasionally bouts of animalistic fucking, but I'm not much into toys and restraints and such."

"Maybe, in the shower?" she asked, the alcohol giving her courage.

"Oh sweetheart, shower sex is a young man's game. Not sure how much I can manage." She pouted, very prettily, he thought, at his answer and he relented. "But we might have to experiment to see what we can come up with."

Truthfully the thought of her all wet and slick and pliable in the heat of the shower was tempting. He got her into the bedroom and she fell face down on the bed. He helped her remove her clothing and tucked her in. She had dozed off.

 _The woman does not hold her liquor well, he thought._ He undressed and joined her, pleased when she shifted over so that she was nestled against him.

 **The Costume Shop**

"Is this the costume?" he asked dubiously, eyeing the silk shirt, the leather vest, and the leather pants. She nodded and he shook his head. "Jefferson had a hand in this, I'm sure."

"Will you wear it?" she asked.

"These pants appear a bit small."

"They're your size," she confirmed for him.

"Show me your costume?"

"Well, I was trying to decide between dressed down Beauty or dressed up Beauty." Lacey held up a simple blue dress and a luxurious golden one.

"For this Gala, the golden one," he told her, without hesitating.

"I wore a gold dress for the Governor's Ball," she reminded him.

"But that one was shimmery and sleek. This one is poofy and . . . poofy."

"All right then," she agreed. "So, are you up for the leather pants?"

"For you, I will, but I expect this to give me full passing marks for whatever final exam you had planned for me to prove my rehabilitation as a decent, pleasant human being." She wrinkled her nose at him, then smiled, then stood on her toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I think you've already proven what you needed to," she whispered to him. She took the costumes up to the cashier's station.

 **Getting Ready**

Gold looked at the pants. He'd studied them. _How the hell was he supposed to get these bad boys on?_

He called Jefferson.

"Getting readeeee," Jefferson answered the phone, obviously not pleased by the interruption.

"I need help."

"Well, I understand that some women like to be on top now and then."

"Not with sex, you tosser. Getting on these leather pants. I've made a couple of attempts and the damn things just won't go on." He might have heard Jefferson laughing.

"All right. I suppose I owe you. There is a technique. I'll talk you through it. First, are you dry?"

"Am I what?"

"You haven't just got out of a bath or shower?"

"No."

"Good," Jefferson continued. "Next, have you got some baby powder?"

"Some what?"

"Please, this is going to take forever if you're going to have me repeat myself each time. Do you have some baby powder? Lacey has some, I'm sure. Go and get the entire bottle. You'll need it."

"I'm putting you on speaker phone," Rumple told him and went into the bathroom that he now shared with Lacey. The previously tidy and pristine bathroom counter was now covered with bottles and tubes and jars. _He might have complained about her taking over his bathroom, but the end result was so delicious that he just accepted the price he was paying._ It took him a while to find the white plastic bottle.

"Got it," he told Jefferson.

"Generously powder your legs," Jefferson told him. "All of your legs."

Rumple did so.

"All right, you've seen a woman pull on tights?"

"No," Rumple told him.

"Think back. At some point, you've seen a woman pull on tights . . . pantyhose . . . leggings . . . jeggings . . . tight jeans."

Rumple thought. "Maybe Milah. She'd end up doing all these gyrations to squeeze herself into things."

"That's what you're going to have to do. Start by bunching up a leg and pulling it up over your foot. Then pull the pant leg up over your leg slowly, no further than your knee. Then start the next leg the same way."

"Will these go over my boxers?" Rumple asked him, struggling with his first leg.

"Boxers? Good lord, you're not wearing boxers, are you?"

"I always wear boxers. I like the freedom it gives my boys."

"Of course, you do. Listen, you can't wear underwear with leather pants. You're going to have to freeball it."

"What?"

"You're asking me to repeat myself again. Listen closely. No underwear. Just you and the pants."

"Okay," Rumple sighed and the line went quiet. Jefferson assumed he was sliding his boxers down and over the one leathered pant leg that he'd already started. "I'm back on it."

"Switch back and forth. Pull up one side, then the other."

"This is working," Rumple told him. "Uh . . . spoke too soon. They aren't going over my fat arse."

"Well, there are a couple of ways to do this. You can jump up and down, pulling up on the pants or you can lie down on the bed and tug them up and over your precious little tushy," Jefferson directed him.

He heard some strange sounds and assumed Rumple was jumping up and down. _Wish we were on a video feed – this has got to be priceless._

"Well, jumping up and down made a little progress, but now I'm trying this lying down thing," Rumple told him. There were some more grunts and then . . . "Got 'em. Good grief, these aren't very pliable, are they? I don't think I'm going to be able to bend over to get the boots on."

"They'll get more pliable as the night goes on, like a second skin," Jefferson promised him. "Anything else?"

"No, I've got to get Beast makeup on and Lacey said she'd help with that. Thanks."

"See you at the Gala," Jefferson told him, hanging up.

"Who was that?" Viktor asked him. "Sounded like you were talking someone through putting on leather pants."

"Rumple. He's wearing leather pants."

Viktor grinned at him. "So, Lacey did talk him into it. Doing us all a favor. I always liked that girl."

 **Final Touches**

Lacey had some difficulties not gaping at the man. She was able to help him get on the exotic pointy-toed boots and helped with the body and face makeup. She glued on his black talons. When he finished dressing, putting on the wig, the red silk shirt, and a reptile-leather looking vest trimmed with carrion-bird tail feathers, he was startled at his reflection.

"I don't know if I'd recognize myself," he said. He postured, waving his hands.

"Maybe you should adopt a voice," Lacey suggested.

"I'll try a couple out. You tell me which one you like best."

"You almost sound like you're enjoying yourself."

He clapped his hands together and undulated his body. "Perhaps, dearie."

"That's a good voice," she told him. He sounded like a devious cartoon character.

"Maybe," he had gone back to his own voice. "You need any help dressing?"

"I got it. I'll slip the dress on and brush out my hair. I'm just wearing a little makeup. This character is supposed to be sweet and natural."

 **The Gala Begins**

Lacey realized she was holding her breath. She had needed a little help getting the zipper on the dress pulled up – thankfully Rumple, even with the talons, was able to render her assistance. They enlisted his driver, Dove, to get them out to the country club venue for the Gala. Dove had brought his e-reader and was happy to wait for them.

Walking toward the front of the facility, Lacey looked around. There were many truly elaborate costumes. She began to realize that her efforts for Rumple and herself were on the lesser side.

"I think we look pretty good," she heard Rumple. "We don't look desperate or cheap."

"Thank you, I was beginning to think that we hadn't done enough," Lacey confided in him.

"We'll be fine. We'll get a couple of drinks and I think I will be able to manage a few dances. Just don't drop anything. I won't be able to do the gentlemanly thing and pick it up – I can't bend over in these pants."

Lacey soon saw Viktor and Jefferson who came over to join them.

"You look splendid. I expected no less," Jefferson told her. "Good grief, Rumple. I don't know that I would have recognized you. Your costume is amazing."

"It might help you recognize me if you looked at my face instead of my crotch," Rumple re-directed him.

"Not if I'm trying to recognize you," Jefferson said slyly. "Well, darlings, we're going to circulate. I haven't seen your mother yet." He spied her coming towards them.

Fiona was dressed in a killer black dress. She wore a wig of short black hair, sported strings of pearls and was smoking a cigarette. "Rumple darling. What a great costume. I wouldn't have recognized you. Jefferson and Lacey must have worked tag-team to get you in those pants."

"And you look good, mom. Who are you?"

"Good lord," Jefferson rolled his eyes. "Fiona, you've got her down perfectly."

"Well, I wouldn't have been able to except for a friend who found me this dress in a little New York boutique. Thank you so much," Fiona offered Jefferson a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"When I saw it, it screamed Fiona." Jefferson turned back to his husband and friends. "Vintage Chanel. I snapped it up and sent it to her – she was the only one I knew with enough élan to carry it off."

"Chanel?" Rumple repeated.

"Who else? I'm Coco Chanel. I'm with Cordie who's Greta Garbo. We don't think the two ever met, but they should have."

"Interesting choices," he told her.

"We thought so. Now," she was talking to Rumple and Lacey, "I hope you're two are going to be able to share a dance together. I think there's a good chance you will win the prize." And Fiona flitted away.

"Prize?" Lacey asked.

"Yes, darling," Jefferson explained. "It's like being elected Prom King and Queen. There's a prize for having the best . . . . stuff – costume, attitude, characterization, the whole package."

 **The Ex-Wife**

There was a proper crush of people and in a short time, it became difficult to maneuver through the crowd, especially for Lacey, whose dress took up room enough for three people. She ended up on the sidelines, watching the dancing. Rumple graciously offered to get her a drink and some nooshes from the buffet bar, leaving her alone for a while. Emma came by, dressed as a fairy princess.

"Just a generic fairy princess," she explained to Lacey. "Neil's here, dressed as my Prince Charming."

"That's sweet. Rumple and I went with the whole fairy-tale theme, too," Lacey told her.

"You know Professor Gold's ex-wife is here," Emma leaned in to whisper the news to Lacey. "She doesn't look happy."

"What is she dressed as?" Lacey found herself asking.

"Oh, she and her husband are dressed up as John Steed and Emma Peel, from the 1960's Avengers series. Killian's wearing a nice suit, a bowler hat and is carrying an umbrella. Milah's wearing a body suit and I think she's carrying a real gun."

Lacey let out her breath in a gush of air. "Great." She had a sudden urge to search for Rumple amid all the revelers. She had an abrupt sense of pending doom.

 **Passing Years**

"I never thought my ex-husband would look better in leather than I do."

He recognized the voice and froze. "Really dearie," he'd turned to face her.

"I have to admit. You look good, back and front. Tell me, how far down does that body paint go?"

"Far enough," he told her. "By yourself?" he looked around but didn't see Killian.

"Usually," she answered him and took the drink he'd gotten for Lacey. "I hear you're living with that Spanish princess or whatever she is."

"I am."

"Of course, I know she's not a Spanish princess. More likely she's from Montreat."

"Frog Level, actually," he clarified. "She was a special student of mine and we . . . connected."

"It's serious?"

"Decidedly so."

Milah was looking at him steadily.

"You look good."

"You too," he told her.

"Ha. I'm beginning to feel my age, the years starting to take a toll. The passage of time isn't as kind to a woman as it can be to a man," Milah told him.

Rumple regarded her, "I still see you as that gorgeous sixteen-year-old I fell in love with."

Milah studied him for a moment, "Thank you. It's times like this, that I remember why I fell in love with you." She considered her next words carefully. "What would you say if I told you I regretted leaving you?"

Rumple gaped at her.


	17. I'm Thinking Six

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 17**

 **I'm Thinking Six**

 _Did Milah regret leaving him?_

It had not been pretty. It had not been quick.

He and Milah had begun to grow apart soon after they were married, even before she got pregnant. Her infidelities, _he thought,_ had begun soon after the baby was born. While he had done his best to pretend that there were no problems, her clear and evident dissatisfaction was an ever-present thorn in the side of their marriage. Tempers were shorter, moods were darker, words were harsher.

He had worked hard to carry on, doting on his son from infant to toddler. Throughout that time there had been a growing number of red flags: odd phone messages, sudden meetings with out-of-town friends, flowers delivered with no card, expensive new jewelry, strange perfume – all of which he had chosen to ignore. But catching her in bed with one of his business competitors had been the final straw. He could not ignore it, could not deny it any longer.

He had packed his shaving equipment and a change of clothing and left, going right to his attorney.

He'd been surprised, with his evidence of her adultery, that the divorce had ended up being so contentious. But there had been money involved, her family's and his, which he supposed had contributed to much of the bitterness. And, of course, there was a child. Milah had played the doting mother trapped in a loveless marriage to a cruel and heartless man. She had been successful in swaying the judge to gain custody.

He had more anger at her for that issue than any other. To make it worse, she had continued to do everything she could to undermine his relationship with his son. It had taken him years to even begin to repair the damage.

 _And now, she was telling him she regretted it?_

"As I recall, I left you," he reminded her.

She had the grace to wince. "Only after I drove you to it," she admitted. She sighed and stepped towards him. "I wanted adventure. I wanted excitement and I began to believe that you couldn't give me those things."

"I was only able to offer you stability, my respect and my deepest affection," he told her, watching her intently.

"And now . . . now, I've realized that what I really want, what I don't have, _is_ all that stability, respect and affection. Killian . . . he's not . . . he's not what I thought he was. I don't have these things with him."

"And you think that . . . maybe . . . you can still get these from me?" he asked slowly.

"Is it . . . is it too late?"

She was still remarkably beautiful, her shining dark hair and sultry dark eyes. And the Emma Peeler she was wearing, a tight body suit, showed that she had not lost any of her figure.

He considered. "You know my friends dragged me into therapy after the divorce. They were concerned about me."

"I'd heard something about that," she was confused by his response.

"One of the things that was brought up was that I had fallen in love with you because you were very much like my mother, who had rejected me early on. I was pretty disgusted by the whole idea, but as I thought about it, I realized there was some merit in the thought. You are both stunning brown-eyed brunettes, both beautiful . . . and both totally self-absorbed."

"So, you married me because I'm like your mother?" Milah asked pulling back.

"Perhaps." He walked around her, coming up behind her. _He caught a glimpse of poofy gold foil around the corner._ "You know, if you had come to me a year ago, maybe even just three months ago, I think I might have asked you out, made some effort to get to know you again." He stopped, then added, "I probably would have slept with you." He walked around to face her. "I would have told myself that Neal would have wanted me to try to make a go of our marriage again . . . but . . . the truth would have been that you were still a fire in my blood."

"And now?"

"It's interesting. I look at you and . . . I feel nothing," even as he said the words, he seemed surprised. "I don't love you. I don't hate you. I . . . feel . . . nothing. You're just another person in the room."

"It's that new little girlfriend, isn't it?"

He didn't answer, and she wiped away a tear. She continued. "Listen, please. Things aren't going well between Killian and myself and I've begun to realize . . . I've realized that you're the better man. You've always been the better man. I was a fool for pushing you away."

He shook his head and stepped away.

"Give me a chance to make things right between us. I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking, begging . . . pleading. Things were good between us, once," Milah told him. " They could be again. We've both grown up a lot since we were first married."

"Milah," he called her name. "Stop it. It's not going to happen." He paused just a moment, "I've moved on. It's taken me a while, and a lot of help, but . . . I've moved on. I will always respect you because you're the mother of my child but that's all there is, all there can be, between us."

There was the splash of cold liquid hitting his face.

Milah had thrown the remnants of her drink, the drink he'd gotten for Lacey, on him. She glared at him. "You think you'll be happy with her? She's younger than you, a lot younger. Don't you see that she's using you, your position, your money to get . . . oh, whatever the hell she wants from you. You won't possibly be able to satisfy her – you weren't very good at that when you were younger and had more energy. She'll get tired of you, bored with you, and she'll leave you." She turned, tossed her hair, and stomped away.

Rumple brushed off the alcohol, which had beaded up on his costume. He realized he was smiling. He couldn't remember when the last time he'd talked with Milah that he'd walked away smiling. He felt liberated, free.

"You can come out now," he called out as he adjusted his costume. And slowly, Lacey, in her poofy gold dress stepped around the corner.

"How long have you known I was here?" she asked, slinking forward.

"When I told Milah that if she had come to me a year ago, I caught a glimpse of that dress. You'd come to rescue me, hadn't you?"

"I cume t' fight fur you. So help me, if that skank had put a hand on you, I was gonna open up a jar o' whupass and I'd've been all over her."

"Fight for me?!"

"She thinks she kin crawl back into yur good graces jus by sayin' 'I'm so sorry an' never you mind.'?" Lacey was ranting and all her hard-won elocution lessons had been forgotten.

"You were going to fight for me?" Rumple pulled her over, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her anger as a trembling force possessing her entire body. He kissed the top of her forehead. "Well, I guess the woman who had the wherewithal to jab my father in the leg with a fork to defend her own honor would be more than ready to defend me. Very nice. Thank you."

"Air you really dun wid her?" Lacey had to ask.

"So very done. I never thought I'd get here. I have no more interest in her than I would a passing stranger. I care more if Granny's Diner has a fresh batch of cannoli on the menu than I do for Milah's well-being." He caught her chin, lifting it up so that she was face to face with him. "And I have you to thank." He stopped smiling and was suddenly somber. "Your love has taught me that I'm lovable. I am worthy and deserving of happiness."

"Well, of course, you . . ." she stopped talking. She had to because her mouth was otherwise occupied.

He pulled back from the impetuous kiss. "It's about that time for the dance. Why don't we go out and join the competition and see if we can win that damn prize?"

"Your leg feels well enough?" she asked.

"I'm on an endorphin high at the moment, so yes," he answered.

 **The Dance**

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Fiona was addressing the crowd. "We are about to have the Couples' Dance. At three hundred dollars for an entry fee, it is our biggest single funraising effort of the season. It will determine who will win this year's Gala Crown. We're being judged by Isaac Heller, a well-known Broadway choreographer, Elsa Arendale, who is currently the lead dancer with Dancers on Ice and our great friend and returning judge, Anton Riese, who owns the House of Dance here in Asheville. Each competing couple will have three minutes to impress the judges."

She stepped back from the mike and sat down next to the judges. The hall lights dimmed and the area in front of the judges was lit with spotlights. A couple stepped out on the floor and began.

Rumple and Lacey got in the long line with Viktor and Jefferson coming in just behind them.

"Do we have music?" she whispered. "I didn't know anything about this competition.

"On my phone," Rumple answered her. "They've got it set up for us to pipe it into speakers."

As Lacey watched, it was evident that many of the couples had practiced – some looked like they had worked with a professional choreographer. They were really good.

"Are you sure we want to do this? We haven't practiced or anything," she told him.

"You can waltz, right?" he asked her.

"Yes, you know I can."

"We'll be waltzing," he leaned in and whispered his other ideas. She listened closely and smiled.

"All right then. As long as we don't make fools of ourselves," she agreed.

"Oh, come on you two," Jefferson butted in. "It's not just based on dance skills. You've got to project your characters and make the magic happen. See now, watch Killian and Milah dance," he directed their attention to the couple presently in the spotlight. "See, how they've obviously worked with someone and practiced, but we don't believe for a moment that she's Emma Peel and certainly can't buy Killian as John Steed. The dancing is adequate, but . . . there's no feeling." Jefferson shook his head. "They won't even place," he predicted.

"Please, Lacey, remember this is all for the Heart Center," Viktor reminded her. "We want to upgrade the solarium with this year's proceeds."

"All for a good cause then," Lacey decided. "All right then."

She was, however, very nervous, when it came to their turn. Rumple stopped her from going onto the floor and stepped out by himself. He gave a flamboyant bow to the judges and then took a stroll around the fringe of the dance floor. He was clearly assessing the other attendees as alternative dancing partners. He stopped when he got to Lacey and with a quick gesture, he produced a single rose. He bowed and offered her the flower.

Lacey's surprise at his magic-like gesture was genuine. She smiled, curtsied, took the rose, then took the dance floor, holding his hand as he led her out to the floor. He pulled her to him, taking rough charge of the dancing.

The music started and she had to laugh. It was the theme from Beauty and the Beast - of course, it was. She kept her eyes locked on his and followed his lead as he swept her around the room, one hand on her back, his other hand holding onto hers.

She'd always liked the waltz, having learned it was far from a stodgy dance, more of a whirlwind, one that could easily catch a person in its heartbeat and pull them along into a swirling world of movement and feeling. Blithely, unaware of her surroundings, she allowed herself to fall into the dance, becoming attuned to her partner, his warmth, and power, the safety of his arms, his love enveloping her.

When he stopped to tip her back, ending their dance with a tender kiss, she was startled back into reality, hearing applause and a few cheers.

He led her off the dance floor. Several people around them shared how wonderful they had been. Lacey was still catching her breath and could only nod and smile at them.

Rumple found her a chair and a server came by with sparkling water for them both.

"Now we wait," he told her. "Whatever else happens, I don't think we embarrassed ourselves."

They weren't able to see the dance floor, but they were able to hear the music for the next couple, Viktor and Jefferson as Holmes and Watson.

"What is that music?" Lacey asked.

" _The British Grenadiers_ , if I'm remembering correctly. It's a marching song," Rumple said listening a moment. "And now, oh my God, we've got _Rule Britannia_."

"Are they really dancing together?"

Rumple moved to get a better vantage. He sighed, "Yes, yes they are. And it's homoeroticism at its best." He watched for a while. "Maybe I missed out on something turning Jefferson down." He turned back to Lacey. "I think we can kiss off first place."

"They're that good?"

"Oh yeah. You know Jefferson. Always the showman."

 **Back Seat Confessions**

They rode home, sitting in the back seat, cradling their second-place trophy.

"I'm proud of this," Lacey told him.

"Well, they did say the choice was very difficult this year. Who knew there's a fascination for gay men and their relationships? Holmes and Sherlock," he shook his head.

"I'm so glad for them. Jefferson, especially, has been such a wonderful friend," Lacey said. "I'm half in love with him, you know."

"I do know. And he's half in love with you. I think Viktor and I would be jealous if we thought anything would come of it besides friendship."

Lacey laughed and sat back. She was a little tipsy but not really drunk. "You know it's not true," she began.

"What's not true?"

"Well, all those mean things Milah said. I think she really might be regretting losing you . . . and she should. But . . . am I a terrible person? because I don't feel the least bit sorry for her. She created her own problems. And her loss is my gain."

"And my gain too," Rumple told her.

"Well, what she said about me getting bored and tired of you and that I'm just using you and all and I'm probably going to leave you – that's not gonna happen."

"I've decided that what I have with you is worth the risk," he shared. "I hope you don't go away, but if, for some reason, you do, then I will, at least, I will have had today. And knowing this happiness, now, is worth any price I might have to pay in the future."

"Oh, that's so sweet," she told him.

Dove pulled up in front of the apartment. He got out, surveying the streets and then opened the door for them. Lacey smiled at the somber, tall man.

"Thank you, Dove. I really appreciate you looking out for me," Lacey told him.

The man seemed a bit taken aback, but gave her a quick smile and a nod. "Ma'am," was all he said.

"He's another one who's half in love with you," muttered Rumple as he guided Lacey into the elevator.

"Well, he's very nice and ever so helpful," she told him. "What's wrong with letting people know how much you appreciate them?"

"Nothing, but when you do it, people think you mean it."

"I do," she said, wide-eyed.

They got to his apartment, Lacey turned toward him and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She laid her body on his.

"Uh . . . Lacey," he began between kisses.

"Whut?" she muttered.

"I need to step into the shower," he told her.

"Sounds wonderful," she replied.

"Yeah, but . . . uh . . . Jefferson shared some leather pant etiquette guidelines with me."

"Some what?" she asked stepping back from him.

"Well, uh . . . listen, I'm a bit . . . uh . . . ripe," he told her. "My nads have gone from toasty to roasty to I-doubt-I'll-be-able-to-father-a-child-anytime-soon. Jefferson told me that when you wear leather pants, you end up. . . uh . . . marinating in your own sweat . . . and it's not pleasant."

"Wait a minute. Were you not wearing underwear?" she asked.

"Oh no. I had to go commando with these pants," he confirmed.

Lacey made a little whimpery sound.

"But when it comes to taking them off, well, at some point during Jefferson's instructions, the phrase 'swamp ass' came up. He suggested I peel these things off and step directly into a shower."

"Can I join you, please?" Her eyes were brilliant, nearly glowing in the dim lights.

"Give me five minutes after you hear the shower come on. Can you do that?" he asked.

She grinned. "Yes, sir."

 **Hot Shower**

Getting the damn pants off was easier than getting them on, for sure. They rolled down his body, the cool air hitting his privates. He experienced a rush of relief. This whole thing had been an experience and not one he really wanted to repeat _although he suspected if Lacey asked him, he would shimmy into the damn things again._

He totally got the whole 'swamp ass' thing – there was a definite sense of odiferousness. He turned on the shower and began to wash off.

"Can I help?"

He heard Lacey.

"It hasn't been five minutes," he complained.

"I couldn't wait. Let me help you out." She stepped into his spacious shower.

And he felt her hands on him, rubbing soap and a washcloth on him. _His body instantly responded to her, rising hard and eager._

He stood passively while she addressed herself to washing him off.

"I like this patchouli and sandalwood soap," she told him, lathering it up and spreading it on his chest.

"So do I," he told her. Her hair was all wet, hanging dark and curling against her pearl-white body.

"It smells good." She was timidly lathering up his buttocks and delicately working around his burgeoning erection. She knelt and worked on soaping up his legs. The hot spray was washing off the soap and steaming up the shower.

He was stunned when he felt her hand, her fingers caressing his hardened cock.

"Have you just gotten a lot better or was Milah impossible to satisfy?" he heard her ask.

"Maybe a little of both," he told her and closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy everything she was doing, touching him, rubbing him. When he felt her warm, wet mouth he thought he might pass out. He felt her, every little nuance, her tongue lathing him, then flicking the head of his cock, then her mouth taking in his length. When she began to suck, he bit his lip, feeling the blood surge into his organ. He groaned.

"Lacey, please, I can't take much of this," and he reached down to pull her up and off of himself.

"You like that?" she asked, her eyes half-closed.

"Witch, sweet girl, you must know I do. Here," he sat down in the shower, thanking whatever gods there might be that he had installed a seat in his shower when his leg had rendered his balance tenuous. He pulled her on top of him, facing him, her legs coming up and wrapping around him.

In the hot spray, he caught her hair at her neck and turned her head to look at him.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Please," she answered.

He lifted her up and lined himself up, slowly dropping her down.

"Wooo," she said, "This is nice."

"Yeah, I like to be able to see your face when . . . when I'm . . . when I'm making love to you." He pushed up and caught her surprised expression. "You push down," he told her. "I'm going to be pushing up."

Lacey could only focus on how really good he felt, driving into her, stroking hard and long against her, kissing her, his mouth nudging hers open, his tongue gently insinuating itself, teasing her tongue, running along her lips, tasting her. Everything quickly dissolved into heat and skin and satisfying, deeply satisfying stimulation.

"Look at me," he ordered, pulling back, his eyes dark and shining. "I love you, Lacey. Come for me, my sweet darling."

And she couldn't stop herself, her body clenching around him, the intensity of her response making her cry out and there were wonderful, hard rolling waves of pleasure, causing her to collapse and cling to him.

"Rumple, I love you, too," she managed to gasp out and she felt his hands on her hips, clenching her, holding her down as he began to spew forth, his life's energies pouring into her.

They held onto each other, all the while the shower spraying them with hot, pelting water.

She recovered first. "All right. Maybe not so much a young man's game here."

She heard him chuckle. "Perhaps - the seat helps." He brushed the water out of his eyes and lightly kissed her. "Let's get out and go on to bed."

They lay together, arms and legs entwined in the dark, quiet of the bedroom. Lacey kissed him on the chest, following up her kiss with a quick lick of her tongue.

"You taste good," she told him. She got quiet and he knew she was thinking about something.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" he asked her.

"Twice now, you've mentioned children."

He got still, "Have I now?" he said neutrally.

"Would you like children? Children with me?" she asked.

"I like children, Lacey," he told her.

"Children with me?" she asked again.

"If you want them. Yes, yes, I would very much want children with you."

"I would like that."

"I'm thinking six," he told her.

"Six! I was thinking two," she replied.

"Then we'll split the difference and have four," he decided.

"Four!" she said. "I don't know. I mean, I'll be in school, working on a degree, and all the while you want me to be making babies with you and taking care of them. It seems a bit much."

"Don't forget, you were also thinking about opening your own bookstore," he reminded her.

"And you think I can do all this and raise four of your babies?!"

"Of course, I do. We'll work together on the raising part. And I can help with your business if you want me too."

She sighed and nestled close to him. "Love you."

"Love you," he told her.

He lay in the darkness of the room, feeling her body go soft and pliant as she fell asleep lying against him.

He lay next to her thinking. In two days it would be Valentine's Day. He'd talked this over with Jefferson who'd given him some suggestions.

He wasn't going to mess this up. Well, he hoped he wouldn't mess it up. He wanted to propose marriage to her, a real, genuine proposal of love and faithfulness, respect and a promise to take care of her . . . and whatever children they might have together. He didn't want to continue as they were, with her as his . . . what? Mistress? Whore? No, he wanted her as his wife.

He could only hope that she wanted the same thing.

 **A.N. I have to thank the good people over on the Accuracy in Fiction Facebook site for all their guidance in the wearing (putting on and taking off) of leather pants. This is totally out of my realm of experience and I wanted it to be as authentic as I could make it. -twyla**


	18. How About a Cape?

**My Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 18**

 **How About a Cape?**

He really wanted everything to be perfect. He'd made lists and checklists and a timeline. He'd called Jefferson six times to run over his game plan. In exasperation, Jefferson had finally advised him to take a stiff drink and relax.

He was in the apartment alone, setting things up for an intimate supper. Lacey was out taking her first class of her only course, easing into the college life and getting a jump start on her program which wouldn't officially start until next September.

" _Should I put the ring in a glass of champagne?" he'd asked Jefferson._

" _Good Lord, no. She's likely to swallow it or if it lands in her mouth, bite down on it and crack a tooth."_

Jefferson had advised him to keep it simple. "The more complex you make something, the more opportunities there are for things to go wrong."

All right then, simple was to be the watchword. He'd settled on a take-out meal from Granny's – a plain (lame-ass) salad with blue cheese dressing, lasagna, and then cannoli for dessert – all Lacey's favorites. He selected a rich wine (one of his favorites) to set off the food. He'd set things up in front of the library window that looked out onto the city. The table was spread with a cream and gold cloth with golden chargers and ivory-colored china. He planned to provide candlelight to augment the sparkling lights coming off the streets and buildings of the city.

And after the meal, when everything was all smooth and mellow, he planned to take her hands in his and proceed.

He surveyed the room, satisfied. It was damn near perfect. It was just missing . . . Lacey.

She was running late. When she finally arrived, it was past six and she was frazzled.

"One of the worst days ever! I couldn't find a place to park and when I did, I had to hike across campus, so I was late. Then my tablet died, so I got out some paper and pen only to find that my pen had been leaking so now I had this black hand. And then, when I stop to take a breath, I see that everybody is sooo much younger than I am and . . . and I don't think the professor likes me." She had tears welling up in her eyes.

"How could the professor not like you?" Rumple asked, in disbelief.

"Because I was late and had to borrow note-taking materials, so I felt like I was being unprepared and disruptive – which I probably was." She sniffed. "I stayed after to apologize, and the professor was . . . brusque, is that the word? He was short and snappish." She flopped down in the library. "I thought I would have been an old hand at dealing with rude people having lived with you for a couple of months."

"Thanks, I guess," he protested. "But, I've changed, right? So, you got out of practice, maybe, dealing with rude people."

She sighed, "Yes, you have changed. Hummm, maybe that's why I got a bit upset – I'm out of practice."

"I'd be happy to be a great giant arse again if you think it would help you," he told her.

She shook her head, "Thank you . . . I think, but I don't know that I could deal with two jerks." She stretched and started to get up. "I have a ton of reading I need to get done. I guess I should get started."

Rumple hesitated, "Lacey, I want to respect your study schedule, but have you forgotten what day it is?"

"No, it's . . . uh . . . February, uh . . . Saturday was the twelfth, so today would be the . . . uh . . . fourteenth. February fourteenth." She looked up at him. "Oh, my goodness, it's Valentine's Day! I've been so focused on school and this class. Did you have something special planned?"

"Just a quiet, simple supper here. I didn't want to fight the crowds in the restaurants, so I had a couple of your favorites delivered."

"That sounds perfect. I'm sure I can spare the time for supper with you," she got up. "I'll probably feel better if I eat something. Sometimes, you have a knack for getting things just right," she told him.

"Sometimes," he agreed. He led her to the library and the small table that had been set up in front of the large window. "Take a seat milady and I'll bring out the food."

"You don't need any help?" she called back to him.

"No, I have a push cart with everything we need," he called back to her. He soon came in pushing the little metal cart, stopping to turn off the overhead lights, leaving the room in muted light. The cart was loaded with their suppers, a red rose in a crystal vase and a box of matches. "A flower for milady," he placed the vase on the table and then took the matches to light the candles.

"So romantic," she told him. "It's all so beautiful."

"God, I hope so," he muttered. He placed the salad plates in each place setting. "We will be starting with your favorite salad, lettuce, tomato and cucumber with blue cheese dressing."

"I would have thought you would have served goat cheese and cranberries on a bed of . . . what's some classy sounding lettuce?"

He sat down across from her and began his salad. "Boston. If we had all that, we'd be having a balsamic vinaigrette, but Granny's vinaigrette is bland. I went with what I thought you'd like."

"Well, you hit a home run." Lacey had poured on the blue cheese dressing, drowning the salad components. "I do love this dressing." She ran her finger across the plate and popped it in her mouth. Then she stopped and sniffed. "And do I smell Granny's lasagna?"

"You do," he agreed. "I have to admit, that lasagna has become one of my favorites, too."

"This is certainly helping my mood," Lacey shared. "I was just all out of sorts when I came in. My head was hurting and I was feeling overwhelmed with all I have to do."

"You'll get used to it," he encouraged her. "You're a smart, strong woman and you can do anything you put your mind to."

She smiled at him. "As long as I have you behind me, cheering me on, I think that just might be true."

He brought out the wine and served the lasagna still in its foil container. He did bring out some freshly grated Parmesan to add to the pasta dish. Lacey eagerly dug into the casserole and filled her plate. "This is just the best," she told him, stuffing her face.

The two continued to enjoy the simple meal and each other's company. Lacey would sometimes stop and look at the lights of the cars going up and down the street. "This is really wonderful," she told him, taking a sip of the wine. "I am feeling sooo much better."

They had gotten down to the cannoli and Lacey was luxuriating in the soft pastry, closing her eyes and licking her fingers to get every morsel.

"Lacey . . ." Rumple began. He gulped his remaining wine and poured himself another.

"Yes darling?" she was still enjoying the cannoli.

"You know how important you are to me."

"You often tell me. I haven't forgotten."

"I . . . damn . . . I . . ."

"What?" she asked. He seemed befuddled, confused _and this was not a man easily befuddled or confused._

"I want to marry you. Will you marry me?" His pretty speech all forgotten, he just burst out with the proposal.

He stood up, irritated with himself. Despite all his preparation and practice and input from Jefferson, he'd just gone ahead and blurted out the proposal.

"Damn, damn, damn. I meant for that to be prettier. I had all these words that I was going to use to tell you that you are a light in an ocean of darkness, and you make me want to be a better man and how much I want to take care of you and start right away on those babies."

"Rumple," Lacey interrupted him. He stopped talking. "Do you love me?"

"You know I do. Of course, I do."

"Well, I love you, too. And I would be honored to be your wife."

"Really?" he seemed surprised.

"Really."

"Hey," he suddenly remembered something, "I've got a ring. I was supposed to kneel down and offer it to you." He was pulling the small box out of his pocket. He handed it to her.

Lacey opened it and bit her lip. "It's beautiful."

"It's brand new. Not one that's been in my family. My family doesn't have a good track record for happy marriages and I thought we'd be better off with a new ring rather than a tainted one."

"Well, you know my family's history of marriage. We can only go up from here," Lacey told him. She picked up her wine glass and stood. "I do have one teeny, tiny stipulation."

He was instantly wary, watching her, "What would that be?"

"I want a prenup. I don't want people saying I married you for your money."

He laughed, "Jefferson said you would say that."

She paused for just a moment. "You told Jefferson you were proposing?"

"I needed his help," Rumple confessed. "Was that all right?"

"Certainly. But that means he'll be over here first thing in the morning."

 **First Thing in the Morning**

Lacey wasn't wrong. Jefferson was at the breakfast table before either Lacey or Rumple had gotten up. He was sitting, pushing his egg white omelet around his plate, waiting in agitated anticipation.

Lacey showed him her hand, allowing him to see the ring on her third finger.

"I knew you'd accept," Jefferson told her.

"Of course."

"Well, you're going to need to find a venue. Fiona can help with that. She's got her finger on more fancy places than anyone. You'll need a caterer . . . and flowers . . . and . . . a dress. We need to get on the dress immediately. I'm thinking you and I can head off to New York."

"No, Jefferson," Lacey began.

"Well, I'm sure Atlanta will serve just as well."

Lacey was shaking her head. "I'd thought I'd hit some of the second-hand stores here in town and find something. I don't really want anything fancy, maybe a mid-calf length dress . . ."

Jefferson's face had fallen. "You are not . . . you are not going to deprive me of the opportunity to help plan your wedding, are you?"

"Jefferson, darling. We were thinking of something small and quiet, maybe just going down to City Hall and having a nice reception with our closest friends."

Jefferson gasped.

"Or we could do Vegas," Rumple interjected.

Jefferson stood up, his eyes closed and his hand on his heart as he collected himself. "I am going to go home and lie down and wait for you to come to your senses. City Hall? Vegas? What are you thinking, girlfriend? This is your wedding, your one, and only wedding. I'm telling you, don't pass up this chance to be queen for a day." He wagged his finger at her. "Just going home now. Lying down." And he minced out of the room. "Waiting. You. Your senses."

Lacey and Rumple watched him go.

"You do have a dark side," Rumple told her. "I'm surprised he didn't drop right here from a stroke. You shouldn't tease him so."

"He'll get over it," Lacey said. "And I wasn't teasing him. I don't want a huge wedding with all the fuss and tensions and all the craziness. I want to put my energies into my marriage."

"Lacey, I'm on board for whatever you want to do, you know that. But, I'm here to tell you that you are going to have a fight with Jefferson . . . and my mother . . . if you want to make this a simple, private affair. Neither one of these people understands 'enough'."

"I think I can manage Jefferson. Your mother. . ." Lacey wasn't so sure of herself here.

At that moment Rumple's cell rang. He glanced at it. "It's my mother." He stared at it a moment. "If I don't answer it, she's likely to just come over."

"Answer it," Lacey told him, and she listened to his end of the conversation.

"Yes, mother. . . yes, mother . . . I'm glad you're happy . . . oh . . . you talked with Jefferson . . . I understand . . . yes . . . I understand . . . but . . . but . . . Mother, we just want to keep things simple and understated . . . I understand . . . yes . . . I understand . . ." He looked up at Lacey. "She wants to talk with you." He handed her the phone.

"Good morning, Fiona," she greeted her soon to be mother-in-law.

"What is this I hear that you two aren't going to have a big wedding? Best wishes, by the way."

"Thank you, but I've got so many things on my plate right now and I really would just like for us to get married without a lot of fuss and fanfare."

"Darling, you now have people who can take on all the fuss and fanfare for you. Can you meet for lunch, one o'clock at Bouchon's, and we'll talk?"

Lacey looked at Rumple who shook his head. "You're doomed," he mouthed to her.

"Of course, Fiona," Lacey replied, agreeing to Fiona's favorite little French restaurant. She hung up the phone and handed it back to Rumple.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked. "Moral support."

"Thank you. I would appreciate the support, but I think this is something I'm going to have to deal with myself."

"Then let me give you some advice. My mother is like a Force of Nature. You won't win a full-on frontal fight with her, but . . . if you play your cards right, you might be able to get things to bend your way."

Lacey nibbled on some toast. "I have an idea . . . ."

"Good luck then."

Lacey spent the rest of her morning trying to read over her assignment, taking notes on the text. She began to make up some flash cards to help her learn the barrage of new terms. She then dressed in her black stockings, her little denim skirt and a long-sleeved bright blue teeshirt. She brushed out her hair and put on a little lipstick and mascara. It was an unpretentious look and one that Jefferson had told her made her look chic. She got a kiss from Rumple and then trudged down to the restaurant.

Fiona, as always, looked fantastic. She was also dressed simply in a form-fitting black dress with FMP's and a dash of silver jewelry. A soft cream cashmere shawl was draped on the back of her chair.

The two women ordered, but Lacey refused wine, getting water instead.

"Jefferson told me you're thinking of a City Hall ceremony?" her mother-in-law-to-be asked.

"That's what I said this morning. Neither Rumple nor I want to dawdle around. And I've got university and I'm very out of practice being a student, so I don't have the time to plan anything big or fancy."

Fiona looked down at her perfectly manicured nails. She then looked at Lacey's water. "You aren't pregnant, are you?" she asked.

"Oh no, but . . . well, truth be told," Lacey looked down at her lap and blushed, "we're both wanting children and would like to get started right away."

Fiona sat back. "Rumple made me a grandmother at thirty-five. Never have quite forgiven him for that. But now, I'm at an age that being a grandmother is not a bad thing."

Lacey smiled at the woman. "Then you'd be available to babysit?" she asked mischievously.

"Oh Lord, no. And would you honestly want to leave an infant in my care? But I . . . I do want Rumple to be happy and I know he has this paternal drive – where he got it from, I can't imagine. Milah, that road whore he married when he was young, didn't make him happy and he was never able to be the father he wanted to be for Neal." She signaled the waiter for a second glass of wine. "So, you're going to give him a second chance at fatherhood?"

"I'd like to try."

Fiona considered. "And you want a small, private wedding and you want it soon?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're an exceptional young woman. You know, most women when they get married, they aren't thinking about their vows or the hard work a good marriage is going to take – they're thinking how good they look in their dress. You're thinking about the marriage and making my son happy."

"I am," Lacey confirmed.

Fiona drummed her nails on the table, obviously considering different possibilities. "You're in school now, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's see now. You've got Spring Break coming up, but that will be in, what? Six weeks? Not nearly enough time. When are you out of exams?"

"Late May," Lacey told her.

"Then an early June wedding it is. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have several ideas for venues that we should be able to get on such short notice, but your dress. Please don't get a vintage one – you have no way of knowing what kind of voodoo might be attached to it. We'll need to go immediately and see what's available. What are you doing this weekend?"

"Studying," Lacey told her.

"Good, nothing important. I should be able to finagle an appointment and we'll get Jefferson to come along with us. I'll call you with details as soon as things are confirmed." Satisfied, Fiona sat back, "Now, did you have any ideas for flowers or catering?"

"We were thinking red roses. It's kind of a signature flower for us and, afterward, we thought we'd just all go to Cracker Barrel," Lacey managed to say blandly.

Fiona blinked. It took her a moment to pull herself together. "You are joking, right? I mean I can live with the red roses – they are rather banal but if that's what you want . . . but afterwards . . . ?"

"I think Rumple just wanted a small sit-down meal for family and close friends. Where would you suggest?"

"Oh," Fiona let out some air. "I can get together a list of suitable places and run it by you."

Lacey was breathing easier when she got back to the apartment.

"We're looking at a small June wedding, location to be announced later. We will have roses for our flowers. We'll have a sit-down meal for everyone at a restaurant, also to be announced later. And . . ." she sat down, "I am going with your mother and Jefferson this weekend to find a dress. We have to get the guest list to your mother right away and she'll work on getting invitations."

"Fix you a drink?" he asked.

"Please. Force of Nature is a good description of your mother. They should put her in charge of military campaigns – there is no detail too small that she would forget about it."

"But you survived . . . and," he handed her his best effort, a gin Ricky, "we're going to get through this."

"I played the grandchildren card and she jumped for the fast turn-around," confessed Lacey.

"I'm surprised. She was royally pissed when I made her a grandmother the first time."

"She was thirty-five and it's not that she wants grandchildren now. She . . . she wants you happy and she thinks having children would help that along."

"She wants me happy?"

"I think so. She may actually feel guilty about your childhood, although she'd never say it."

"Well, now I need a drink."

 **Dress Shopping**

It was an elite little shop in Buckhead, the rich end, of Atlanta. Fiona and Jefferson sat in comfortable chairs sipping white wine. Lacey was being dressed in their different picks. Fiona had told her that she would be paying for the dress and not to be concerned about the budget.

Fiona and Jefferson chatted with the consultant about their choices.

"I agree – a ballgown would swallow her frame unless the proportions were exactly right," Jefferson was saying. "Drop waist?"

"Maybe. Or mermaid – she's curvy enough. A sweetheart neckline?"

"Absolutely," Jefferson agreed.

Lacey listened with some amusement. She had been agreeable to trying on their selections but none of them sang to her. In the dressing room, she spoke with the consultant about her own ideas.

"I like lace. I guess I'm old-fashioned that way. And I'd like the dress to . . . uh . . . flow. Something I could dance in, so I wouldn't want it to be too heavy. Maybe something ballerina length. I was originally going to look for something that was vintage - before Miss Fiona and Jefferson became involved."

The consultant, Miss Giselle, nodded. "Those two are trouble. I have an idea. It's a dress not just anyone could pull off, but I think it might have been designed for you."

In fifteen minutes, when Lacey walked out with her selection, Fiona and Jefferson both sat silently. It was Fiona who spoke first, "Lovely. It's understated, but elegant, very much like yourself. What do you think Jefferson?"

Jefferson was sitting with his hand on his face, wiping his eyes and covering his mouth in a fluttery motion.

"Jefferson, are you all right?" Fiona asked him.

"It's just . . . it's just so . . . ." He took a breath. "I remember when I first met you, you thought that vinyl was a suitable fabric for clothing and you wore a tube top to breakfast. I look at you now . . . and," he got up to walk around her, "I can see, my work here is done." He sniffed, "Lacey, you look beautiful."

"Thank you, Jefferson. You have taught me a lot," Lacey told him.

"We'll all agreed then," Fiona announced, "This is The Dress." She got up to talk with the consultant about price and arrange for express alterations.

Lacey changed back into her street clothes and came out to find that Jefferson was still struggling to regain his composure. She heard Fiona speak sharply to him, "Oh for Christ's sake, I'm going to need you to sack up, man. I can't have you dissolving into a puddle of goo with every decision we have to make on this wedding."

"I know, and I didn't expect this to be such an emotional roller coaster, but . . . Fiona, Lacey has been my . . . protégé, especially where fashion is concerned and to see how she has blossomed into this beautiful swan, left the nest and flown on her own . . ." he choked up again.

Fiona rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Lacey rubbed the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a long, exhausting process. There was still the venue, the cake, the wedding party, the photographer, oh, so many decisions to be made.

 **June**

They had survived.

Lacey thought they could very well get tee-shirts printed up with that message.

Fiona had found them a venue – a small winery in the mountains. Afterwards, there was to be a simple meal with a plain vanilla cake with white icing and marzipan red roses. It would be served in a dining hall at the winery. The guests would be staying overnight in the guest houses at the same little winery.

Lacey had insisted on keeping the wedding party small and she only had one attendant, her best friend Ruby, wearing a red dress and carrying white roses. Rumple only had Jefferson as his best man, foregoing ushers.

The last major tussle had been with Jefferson when Rumple had asked him to wear a plain Armani tuxedo with a white shirt. It had started out well.

"Jefferson, I don't tell you this often enough . . . or ever. But, you've been a good friend. You've been there for me in some really bad times and . . . it's nice to have you here, now, in one of the really good times. Thank you."

"We would have been good together," Jefferson told him. "Perhaps not as good as Viktor and I am together and not as good as you and Lacey are together . . . but we would have been good." Jefferson paused. "You've always accepted me for who . . . what . . . I am and that's been . . . satisfying. Knowing you're a straight guy but you're still comfortable around me, that you see me as a friend, your closest friend. Thank you."

Rumple nodded, and the two men stood in awkward silence for a moment.

Jefferson broke the silence, "Well, that was good for me. Was it good for you?"

Rumple smiled and shook his head, "Yeah . . . all right. Now, what do you think of the tuxedos I picked out?"

"The classic unstructured jacket. A bit plain. Can I wear a hat?" Jefferson asked. "A high topper? Please?"

"No," Rumple told him.

"How about a red cummerbund to match the red roses?"

"No."

"How about a cape?"

"No."

"Red socks?"

"No."

"But this is sooo plain," Jefferson whined.

"Wear a red speedo then."

"Already doing that."

Rumple winced and closed his eyes, but it was too late. The image was there.

"But no one will look at me," Jefferson told him.

"You're not supposed to be the focus of attention." Rumple tried to explain. "All eyes should be on my bride. And she's given me the keywords 'elegant' and 'understated'."

"You mean 'boring' and 'more boring'."

"I thought you said you liked her dress? And it was elegant and understated."

"She can pull that look off. I'm . . . I'm a peacock, I have to spread my wings."

"Peacocks spread their _tail_ feathers," Rumple reminded him. "Listen, how about this? After the ceremony, at the little supper we'll be having, you can wear whatever you want."

"Whatever?" Jefferson repeated. He brightened.

"I trust that you'll keep in mind that this is the wedding of your best friend and . . . me and you won't gay it up too much."

"I don't understand," Jefferson said. "What is this concept, 'too much'? How is possible to have 'too much'?"

Rumple rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wedding could not get here soon enough. He wasn't nervous about what he had to do and knew that his bride was strong enough to get through whatever else Jefferson and his mother threw at them. But still . . .

He just had no idea what might happen when Jefferson was taken off his leash (Rumple envisioned him stripping to _You Can Leave Your Hat On)_. He had no idea what might happen when Lacey's trampy best (female) friend had too much to drink (another one to strip; she'd stand on one of the tables). He had no idea what might happen when his mother and father were within ten feet of each other (he envisioned them either trying to kill each other or taking all that pent-up energy and doing it on the cake table). And then there was Lacey's family (he assumed they would be sneaking in beer and spray cheese and Marlboro Lights).

He planned to spirit his bride away in the helicopter that would pick them up (hopefully) before things got too messed up. They would be flown to a nearby airport and from there, fly to the little island Rumple owned off the coast of North Carolina. He'd been working with some contractors to have the main cabin on the island upgraded so that it would be a suitable place to begin his married life with Lacey.

And now the day had finally come. He stood in the small assembly hall, with a subdued Jefferson at his side, and his son and his parents there for him. The music changed and at Jefferson's cue, he turned and saw her . . . and she took his breath away.

 **A.N. Well, this journey is almost done. We'll have a little epilogue in the next chapter to get the gist of their happily ever after. Thank you - twyla**


	19. My Own Fair Lacey

**My Fair Lacey**

 **My Own Fair Lacey**

 **Chapter 19**

 **June – Five Years Later**

It was evening with a full moon. The large cabin with the wrap around porch looked out on the Atlantic Ocean. There were palmetto trees and a rocky path down to the beach leading away from the cabin. A visitor walking the perimeter of the island would find a boat dock and several smaller cabins tucked away built up on stilts as was typical of coastal dwellings. On the highest point of the island, a visitor would find an airstrip and a small plane parked in a hanger.

Lacey was sitting on the wide front porch in one of two matching rocking chairs. Rumple had just come out to join her bringing them drinks. He carried a whiskey bottle and glass for himself but had fixed her a raspberry ginger ale.

"Thank you, darling. How are the little munchkins?" Lacey asked him reaching for her glass.

"Gideon actually went out first, even though he protested the loudest that he was not sleepy. Belle became too interested in the story to go out." He shook his head and sat down, worn out from dealing with an energetic four-year-old and an overly-inquisitive two-year-old. "Next time I need to find a duller story."

"Have I told you today how much I appreciate you taking care of . . . everything you take care of?"

"Nausea's still bad?" he asked, concerned, sitting down in the second rocking chair. When she nodded, he asked, "I thought you were supposed to be over it by now? It wasn't this bad with Gid or Belle and I don't remember it lasting longer than the first trimester."

"You're right. It wasn't this bad and didn't last this long. Oh, yeah. I called Doc before we left this morning and talked with him. I forgot to tell you," Lacey began sipping her ginger ale. "He thinks that with the early weight gain and the amount of nausea . . . and vomiting I've had, that I might be having twins this time around."

Rumple spewed his drink. "You forgot to tell me?!" He wiped his mouth. "Twins?!"

"Well, it's just a possibility," Lacey shrugged it off. "If I'm still barfy two weeks from now when we go back home, he'll schedule me for an ultrasound and we'll be able to see 'em . . . or it," she informed her husband. "You got any twins in your family?"

"No . . . yes. My father's aunts, the two ladies that raised me – they were twins."

"So, this is all your fault," Lacey said sourly.

Rumple regarded his disgruntled wife tolerantly. "Yes, I'd have to agree. Although I do remember you being the instigator this last time around," he muttered. Then he brightened. "And I don't think I've told you today, but your tits look magnificent."

Lacey pulled a face, "Yeah, that's what Jefferson said."

"Jefferson is making comments about my wife's breasts. I don't think I approve of that."

"Hey, I don't have too many secrets from Jefferson. He practically delivered Belle what with you having to make that trip to Paris and then Belle coming early. I remind you again, you owe me a trip to Paris."

"Hey, I did get there in time, barely, I admit, but in time, nonetheless. When our youngest goes off to college, I promise, trip to Paris," he told her.

Lacey sipped her soda and surveyed the dark ocean now split by a glistening thread of moonlight. Soft wave sounds reached her ears and cool breezes wafted off the water and cooled the air to a pleasant temperature, despite the month.

This had become a tradition with them – every year, she and Rumple would spend the first two weeks of June on the island. They also had begun spending a week at Christmas in the secluded spot enjoying themselves and the premium family time the island offered. Lately, they had begun to invite their friends to join them for the second week of June.

Five years ago, Rumple had hired a full-time caretaker, Jason Cogsworth, to take care of things on the island – keeping up the landscaping and maintaining the cabins. Rumple occasionally would rent cabins out, but only to a select few people that he liked and trusted.

"You know, I was thinking recently that if I had known just how much money you had, I don't know that I would have insisted on that prenup," Lacey told him.

"Anytime you want to renegotiate things, I'm open," he told her. "Anything you want – you got it. I didn't think things could get any better than my wedding day, but you've made every day even better and any way I can recompense you, I'm in."

Lacey nodded in agreement, "It _is_ better. I love you more today than I did when we got married. It's different now though, deeper, more understanding."

"Oh, for me it's that you've gotten hotter with age," he said finishing his whiskey.

Lacey shook her head and snorted. "It's the pregnancies. They've reset my thermostat." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm so hoping this nausea will be over soon. I've got all these ideas for the store."

"Oh yes," Rumple was immediately interested. Lacey had already demonstrated some good business insights in the first year of her little bookstore. She'd finished up her degree in library science with a minor in business a year ago, having managed to graduate on time despite two pregnancies. Together they'd found a good location and opened up an eclectic bookstore with a coffee and wine bar on the side.

"I'm thinking about starting a little publishing operation, so local authors can get their work published."

"That's a bit risky."

"Well, I'm not looking for it to be a money-making enterprise. I'm thinking of it more as an important service I can offer the community."

"We'll look into what we need to do and run some numbers by Nolen when we get back."

"Maybe we can get my dad to invest," Lacey suggested.

"Yeah, who'd have thought it? I would have guessed that by now he would have blown through that wad of cash he inherited, but he's managed to make money, quite a bit. You're an heiress now in your own right." He poured himself a second whiskey. "It's even harder to believe, he's managed to take my father along for the ride. I think my father is more solvent than he has ever been. He seems happier now than I can ever remember him being."

"He seems to be getting along with your mother better – or perhaps she's getting along with him," Lacey remarked.

"I often wonder if he and she hooked up at our wedding."

"Can't say for sure. I know your mother and Ruby got to be real good friends at our wedding."

Rumple spewed his drink again. "You've got to quit dropping these bombshells. Ruby! And my mother! How have I not heard about this before?"

"You didn't know? Ruby's pretty . . . uh . . . open to experimentation and, apparently, so is your mother – especially when alcohol has been involved. I don't know if your dad joined them or not."

Rumple blinked. "I can live without that particular imagery."

"Well, we still missed the best part. You whisked me off before the party really got going," she complained.

"You mean before Jefferson streaked through the dining hall wearing only a cape and a red sequined speedo? Oh, and a top hat – I almost forgot the top hat. I'd told him he could wear whatever he wanted to to the reception. He's never been shy and I know he'd had a few and was in a celebratory mood. If you like, I'm sure he'd be happy to re-create the scene."

"I'll pass . . . I think," Lacey told him.

Rumple turned pensive. "You know, you coming into my life has made such a difference – for a lot of people."

Lacey shrugged. "And here I was thinking it was you coming into my life that had made the difference. Well, I do know both of our fathers were thrilled when they got a grandson," Lacey said.

"And then a granddaughter," Rumple reminded her. "Our little Belle even won over my mother."

Lacey laughed, "Yes, when she told your mother 'you pretty,' your mother went head over heels."

"Yeah, and now, she's spent a small fortune in prissy little dresses for Belle."

"And," Lacey sighed, "our Belle is not a prissy little girl. She should be buying them for Grace."

Lacey was referring to Jefferson and Viktor's daughter, who was born from an Ivy League donor egg, a mix of sperm from the fathers and a very well-paid surrogate mother. Jefferson's ovaries had exploded after Gideon was born and he had realized that he really wanted children, children of his own. Grace was a bright little girl with blond hair and a slender build – she could have been his or Viktor's biological offspring. She had been well-named, as she was a careful, thoughtful three-year-old who liked starched dresses and painted fingernails and quiet tea parties.

"Speaking of Grace," Rumple began. "I'm thinking when she and her dads get here next week, perhaps we should go ahead and betroth her and Gideon."

Lacey laughed. "Perhaps we should wait until they can decide for themselves."

Rumple shook his head, "Nah, this is too important to let them decide. I'll talk it over with Jefferson. I'm sure he'll be in agreement."

Lacey just shook her head – knowing Rumple and Jefferson they could very well sign a marriage contract on behalf of their children. "Who do you have in mind for Belle?" she had to ask in a follow-up.

"Oh, she will never marry. She'll remain my sweet, innocent baby girl for the rest of her life," he announced. "There's not a man - or woman - out there who will ever be good enough for my little girl."

Lacey bit her lip but didn't say anything.

Rumple shifted in his chair. "Are you going to sit out here all night?" he asked.

"A little longer. The fresh air is helping my nausea."

"Well, I'm going to go in and grab a shower. The children are likely to be up at sunrise and they'll want breakfast and a walk on the beach."

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, pulled back a moment and then kissed her again, this time on the lips.

"Don't get chilled," he warned her before stepping inside.

Lacey sat and rocked, sipping her ginger ale. She knew her children were safe and asleep in one of the big bedrooms. With the possibility of twins, they might have to do some re-configuring of sleeping arrangements before December. They'd certainly have to get a second crib and one of those special two-fer strollers.

They'd be boys. Yes, if she had twins, they'd be boys and it would be her and Belle against all that testosterone. And Belle was already behaving like a tomboy, chasing after her big brother and copying his behavior. Not that Lacey had any objections - she wanted Belle to be her own person and not be tied to any stereotypes . . . but, she had to admit, she sometimes missed having a little girl who liked traditionally girly things and activities. Thank goodness for Grace who could keep a hair ribbon in place and not step the hem out of her dress and never ruined her new black patent shoes by chasing down some frogs in a pond.

Lacey sighed. She could see both herself and Rumple in each of her children. Gideon had her passion for adventure, her bravery, and his father's deep introspective nature. Isabelle had inherited her mother's love for reading and her father's clever thought processes and insatiable curiosity.

They'd had to move out of the apartment, of course, and even though Lacey hadn't pursued her realtor's license, she still had connections and had been able to find them a single house on three acres. There had already been one cottage on the property and Dove had claimed this. Rumple had talked it over with Ms. Potts and a second cottage, to her specifications, had been built new for her.

The house was thirty minutes from downtown and Rumple had kept the in-town apartment for those times when the weather turned grim and he didn't want Lacey making the drive into school, and later, into her business. There had been some remodeling to fit in the children. Things were tight but workable, but now with the twins – they might have to look for a larger in-town apartment.

Inside, Rumple stepped out of the shower and dried off, putting on some cotton sleep pants and a tee-shirt. As much as he enjoyed his friends and family and their children, he cherished the time he had with his own little family.

Gideon's birth had been a miracle for him. When he'd first held the newborn baby, realizing that he had helped create this new life, he felt like his heart had grown two sizes. Every milestone was remarkable to him, and while he grieved that he'd not been there long enough for Neal, he was grateful for his second chance with Gideon.

And then his daughter was born. She was a feisty child, much louder than Gideon, much more assertive about seeking out attention. And while he'd thought Gideon was bright enough, his daughter's intelligence had astonished him. Lacey had assured him it was simply a reflection of male and female developmental patterns – girls talked earlier than boys, but still, Belle seemed unusually smart. Of course, he had to consider who her mother was.

Yes, he certainly enjoyed watching his children. Little Belle would follow her big brother around, modeling every action. She obviously idolized him. Gideon complained about her a lot, but somehow, was always protective. Rumple thought they were pretty children, even allowing for his natural bias. Gideon had inherited his brown eyes while Belle's infant blue eyes had begun to change into a blue-green. Both of the children had curling brown hair and pale skin.

That reminded him, he needed to get the sunscreen out.

After a week, they would all be joined by Jefferson, Viktor, and Grace, and they would also be joined by Emma and Neal and their infant, Rumple's grandson, Henry. He could only imagine the organized chaos that would ensue once the children were a bit older.

He heard a noise and looked up to see his wife coming into the bedroom. She smiled at him and came over to run her fingers through his damp hair. It still thrilled him to see that determined look in her eyes.

"You know, if I wasn't about to puke, I'd so jump you right now," she told him.

"I'm willing to take the risk."

"Oh, I'm not. Nothing dulls romance like vomit."

"You still want to stop at four?" he asked wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck.

"Right now, yes, absolutely," she told him. "You'll have to ask me that again when this baby, these babies, are sleeping through the night." She reluctantly pulled away from him and started toward the bathroom. She stopped. "Oh, I'll wait and get a shower in the morning. I'm too tired right now." She changed into a loose-fitting nightgown and lay down next to her husband. He placed a hand on her swollen abdomen.

"Twins, huh?" he said.

"You're feeling rather smug about this, aren't you?" she asked him.

"Yes, I am. My little guys did quite the job," he was smiling at her. "'Course, I'm still trying to wrap my head around you allowing me to touch you at all."

He lifted his hand from her abdomen, knowing that pregnancy made her core temperature heat up and she was always too warm. Although she welcomed cuddling with him when she wasn't pregnant, he knew tonight that she would toss and turn if he tried spooning with her.

"You made it happen, you know that? All this?" He spoke to the ceiling. "If you hadn't come into my life wearing that slutty costume, with those ridiculous shoes and that outlandish wig with your preposterous offer to pay me for elocution lessons, none of this would have happened. If you hadn't put up with me . . . if you hadn't come back and worked with me . . . none of this would have happened."

"I was lucky. If I hadn't gotten caught in that rainstorm and overheard you talking . . . lord knows where I'd be. You helped me make the changes I needed to," Lacey said to her husband.

"You know, we seem to do this every June on our anniversary," Rumple realized. "We get very introspective and look back at our lives, before and after we got together."

"Nothing wrong with doing that every so often. It helps us appreciate what we have."

"Well, I know exactly what I have to appreciate. It's you, all you. It's always been you. My beautiful, my brave, my brilliant, my own fair Lacey." And he shifted so that he could kiss her goodnight.

 **A.N. This story is (obviously) a remix/blending of Rumbelle with _Pygmalion_ and _My Fair Lady_. I wasn't satisfied with the ending of either the play or the movie – in the play, Eliza ends up with Freddie (ugh) and in the movie, she returns to Higgins entirely on his terms. I felt that Higgins easily had as many issues as Eliza had – and it would be fun to have her return to tutor him, to help him revitalize his core sweet character that was buried under a layer of cynicism. Jefferson as the Pickering character turned into the biggest surprise (for me) in this story. His friendship with both Lacey and Rumple became so important to both of them and he was so much fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it.**

 **As I often do after finishing a multi-chapter story, I take a couple of weeks off (perhaps publishing a couple of my short stories in my Twyla Files – I've got a brief take-off on _Pride and Prejudice_ with Belle and Rumple as high school students and there's an insane piece with Rumple and Belle on _Naked and Afraid_ , which I can't imagine would be appealing to anyone except myself). Not sure what direction I will take next, I've got a couple more movie remixes ( _His Girl Friday, Desk Set, Christmas in Connecticut_ , among others) and one particular longer original story which I let go during Nanowrimo and haven't properly returned to. Thx to everyone who reads my stuff (love hearing from so many of you) - twyla**


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